


Damage

by Maygra



Series: Unfinished Business [6]
Category: Fast and the Furious Series, The Fast and the Furious (2001)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Unfinished Business Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 76,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/pseuds/Maygra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Damage</b><br/>The Fast and the Furious, Coda to <b>Unfinished Business</b> and corollary to <b>Bella Morte.</b><br/><b>Pairing</b>: Dom/Brian<br/><b>Rating:</b> Mature for sexual situations and sensitive subject matter.<br/><b>Acknowledgements:</b> Many thanks to Bone & thefourthvine for beta duties and hand holding. Much gratitude to Khaleesian  from whom all things (wondrous & evil) flow and for reasons I hope I've made clear. She's got the magic touch, that one. Also thanks to a whole bunch of other people who betaed in part or in full, including makesmewannadie, Mona1347, raynedanser, and Casaubon, for their help in getting this last part checked and posted. To anyone who helped but I forgot to mention, thank you so much (and sorry!)<br/>Originally posted 03/2005<br/><b>Disclaimer:</b> This relies heavily on the two stories listed above. For more information and if you aren't afraid of spoilers, feel free to read over the notes at the end of the story.  </p><p> <i>The characters are not mine, no infringement is intended and no profit made. Please do not archive without permission.</i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Damage

  


There's some phone calls you just know are going to be bad news. Doesn't matter if the person at the other end tells you everything's fine. You still know it's bad. It's like bad news has to travel the fastest. 

I almost miss this one. Juggling bags and keys and shit, and the phone is ringing before I get the door open. The machine will get it on four, but I'm pushing to reach it because there aren't but like six people that have this number. Well, six and the entire LAPD. 

I freeze for half a second before picking it up, because the area code is something...well it ain't California. 

"'lo?" I say it, and for a minute there's silence, like I missed it after all. "Hello?" 

"Brian?" 

A woman's voice, and she seems as confused by my voice as I am by hers. 

"He's not here. Who's calling?" 

"Who is this?" 

I asked first, lady. "You want to leave him a message?" 

More silence, then she takes a breath. "I'm sorry. This is -- this is his mother." 

Whoa. "Okay, Mrs.--" 

"Pamela. Who is this?" 

"This is Dom," I tell her, but I don't know if it will make any difference. I'm feeling about as off-stride as she sounds. "His -- roommate." I don't even know how to say it. Boyfriend? Lover? Somehow I don't think she needs or wants to know what I'm doing with her son. 

"Roommate? I didn't know...uh. I'm sorry." She obviously gets a hold of herself. "Do you know when he'll be home? I can call back." 

I honestly don't and really, wouldn't tell her, even if she is his mother. "Sorry, ma'am, I don't. You want him to call you?" 

"No...no. He won't be able to reach me. I'm not home. You're his friend? You'll be there when he gets home?" she asks. 

Weird. "Yeah. I live here," I remind her. 

"Oh. Right...Oh..." 

Maybe I shouldn't have reminded her, because I think it just sank in. I'm not sure she's ever been here, but if she has, she knows there's only one bedroom. 

"That's good, then," she says quickly. "Tell him I'll call him later," she says, then she is gone. 

It hit me then, that feeling: something is wrong, something that I'm not going to like. Worse, something _Brian_ 's not going to like. 

It stays with me while I unpack groceries, and I keep looking at the phone, expecting it to ring again. It doesn't and the feeling starts to fade a little by the time Brian gets home. Not enough for me to forget though. 

There's food waiting when he finally pulls up. We've gotten into the habit of eating late because even when Brian's working an eight hour shift, it can stretch out sometimes, so usually it's like nine or something before we actually have dinner. Brian keeps trying to tell me I don't have to wait, but it really makes no difference to me. My day starts later, but ends at pretty much the same time every day. 

"Hey," he says as he come in, leans over my shoulder and grins at the chops simmering. He smells clean; he usually showers before he leaves the precinct. Sometimes it feels like our day actually starts at night, because all the best stuff starts at home. "Salad with that?" 

"Yeah," I tell him, and get a kiss. No little quick buss, either. Ozzie and Harriet we're not, no matter what it looks like. And kissing Brian is like the appetizer, food the foreplay for what comes later. It's been months now and sometimes I think we really are still just getting to know each other -- in bed and out. 

When his tongue finally leaves my mouth and he starts pulling out the salad stuff, I remember. "Hey, your mom called," I tell him and watch for his reaction. 

He looks surprised and glances at the calendar on the refrigerator. What? They have a schedule? "She did? What did she say?" 

"Not much. Said she'd call later. She's not at home," I tell him when he reaches for the phone. He sets the phone down but he looks worried when he goes back to shredding lettuce. 

I look to Heaven for patience. "Is that weird?" 

"Uh, kinda," Brian says. "It's not her turn..." 

The last is tossed off while I reach for plates. "Her turn?" 

Brian finishes the salad and starts dumping it on the plates next to the pork. "Yeah. It's my turn to call her." 

Like that explains it. "She know about us?" Me. 

That one sails right over Brian's head. "No. None of her business." There's not even any expression to that. 

I do not get Brian's family. I know the basics. His dad was a cop, shot on duty and never really recovered -- he's disabled and a drunk. His parents are -- what? Divorced? Separated? No idea. Not together. His mom left when Brian was fifteen, after three years of trying to deal with his dad, who apparently got increasingly abusive. Brian said it was never really physical, but sometimes I wonder if that's entirely true. 

I know that Brian calls his dad every couple of months. His dad never calls. 

We went out there once. Drove to Barstow, which was kind of an eye opener -- I mean, seriously, could Brian _be_ any more white-bread, middle America? The house is nice, big. You can get a lot of house in Barstow for a whole lot less than you can in LA. 

There was a late model Honda in the driveway and big old Seville with a wheelchair sticker in the garage that looked in good shape still. 

Meeting his dad was an experience. Number one, he was either drunk or stoned, or both. Number two, he's an asshole. 

The whole trip was all about a refrigerator. I heard the back end of that conversation and Brian wasn't even talking to his father, but to Renee, his father's housekeeper. 

The refrigerator broke down. Simple thing, right? You go to Best Buy or someplace and you get a new one, have them deliver it. You can do it online. But no. Brian's father hardly ever leaves the house. He doesn't have a computer, no cell phone. So Renee calls Brian, who puts in the order and takes a Saturday -- one of his few days off -- and we drive out there. 

Brian hardly talked to his father when we got there. Didn't even try. Didn't even introduce me at first. We get the old refrigerator unpacked and unhooked, and Renee put the food all over the counters and table, in coolers. 

It was no big deal. The delivery guys showed up when they were supposed to, hauled off the old refrigerator while Brian and I hooked up the new one, then we helped Renee pack it up again. 

His dad finally came in when we were finishing up. 

Even stooped over and using a walker, it's pretty clear where Brian got his height. His dad, if he could stand up straight, was a tall dude. Built like Brian too: all broad shoulders and long limbs. But the resemblance stopped there. Earl O'Conner used to be dark, good looking, maybe, in that craggy kind of cowboy way. Now he's mostly gray, spare except for a pot belly that would make any plumber proud. 

Brian really is white bread, but he tans up nice and pretty easily. His dad looked pasty and kind of red in the face. He's still got arms like a wrestler, but his legs, even under his pants, they're like sticks, probably from years of sitting mostly on his ass with no exercise. 

"What are you doing?" 

No hello. 

"Your refrigerator broke down," Brian told him. "Renee called me." 

"Why didn't you tell me?" This to Renee. 

"She did, you told her to handle it so she called me." 

"Who are you?" This to me. 

"He's a friend of mine," Brian said before I could answer, and seemed to want to leave it at that, but then took a breath. "This Dominic Toretto, dad. Dom, this is my father, Earl O'Conner." 

"I don't like strangers in my house," Earl said, but he was looking at Brian. "And I don't need your God damn help for anything." 

That was pretty much the extent of the introduction because Earl turned around and went back to the living room, and turned the TV on loud. 

"Nice to meet you, too," I muttered, and Brian grinned. 

"Yeah, he's a real charmer," he said. "Anything else, Renee? Since I'm here." 

Scarily enough, Renee had a list, but none of it was big. Without crossing Earl's line of sight, we went to his bedroom and helped her re-hang drapes she'd washed, flipped the mattress. Tinkered with a couple of leaky faucets. I think Renee really just wanted someone to talk to, or someone to listen to her talk. Nothing she said seemed that important and I let Brian put in the appropriate responses because she was talking about people and things that I had no clue about. I'm not sure Brian knew half the people she was talking about either but he listened and laughed. It's a knack he has, a gift maybe. Brian can talk to anyone, anytime, about anything. Me, I'm more say what you need to and move on. So I let them catch up while I took out the trash then came back and did a little exploring. 

The house was really too big for Earl by himself, was all I could think. There were three bedrooms and two of them were pretty much shut off. Clean and neat, but obviously unused. Brian said a lot of furniture had gotten cleared out so Earl could get around easier, but really, there was just a worn path from the kitchen to the den to the bath to Earl's bedroom. The rest of the house looked like a ghost town. 

Brian pointed out the bedroom that was his as a kid, but other than furniture that probably hadn't been changed out since he was, there wasn't much of him in it. It was kind of strange to look at it. It reminded me of the first time I was in Brian's house -- when I broke in and seriously wondered if anyone lived there at all. I mean, people collect stuff -- things they never get rid of, right? I've got crap stored away that I've had since I was a kid, years of stuff that's accumulated, been packed away and just moved out to make room for new stuff. Somewhere there's a whole box of plastic car models that my dad and I used to work on when I was like ten. A couple of times I've thought about tossing them or giving them away, but I never have. 

Brian's old room has none of that, or not much. There's some clothes in the closet that were probably his but wouldn't fit him now, the walls are painted some faded blue and the bedspread matches the walls and the curtain. The dresser looks too low for a guy Brian's size. I'm not quite nosy enough to go opening drawers but I'm tempted. There's an old clock radio beside the bed, a couple of reference books on a desk that really looks too small for Brian to ever have used after grammar school, and some tape marks on the walls that probably once were covered in posters or something. Otherwise, it could be a hotel room. It just needs a Gideon Bible on the bedside table. 

But the house itself -- it was meant for family. The bedroom up front is the guest room, but it really is kind of small, pastel walls, same old furniture. Could have been a nursery once. 

It's got a living room and a family room, big kitchen, dining room, big yard, front and back. Makes me wonder if Earl and Pamela didn't mean to have more than one kid. 

The living room really looks like it never gets used. There's a bay window looking out on the street, the sofa and chairs are probably older than Brian. There's some pictures, but not many and I stare at them, seeing a couple of Brian as a kid. A cute kid -- no surprise there. There are three or four of those but none taken after Brian looks to be about twelve. There's a couple of Earl too, much younger, one in his uniform and I stare at it, trying to see Brian in his face, in anything about him, but other than his uniform, the resemblance is pretty thin. But in another Earl looks like a different man. It's one of him and Brian -- Brian maybe nine or so and Earl looked happy, grinning, arm slung around Brian's shoulders like he was showing off someone he was proud of and Brian... 

Brian hasn't lost that smile at all. 

None of his mother though. Not one. I guess I understand it, but looking around, it's almost like she's _more_ here because there's no sign of her; the style of furniture, the colors on the bedroom walls. I don't have to be an interior decorator to know that the stuff here was picked out by a woman. The sofa has some kind of muted floral print, the tables are curved and carved -- very traditional. This was the kind of furniture in my house, furniture my mother had picked out and my dad had happily bought or financed to make her happy, to give her a home. 

I heard Brian calling me and suddenly I couldn't get out of that room fast enough. 

"You want a swim?" Brian asked me, which sounded kind of good. The house had AC, but it's hot in Barstow. Like the rest of the house, the pool in the back was kept up, which seemed strange since Earl obviously didn't use it. It was like the whole place was on hold. 

It was a very bizarre feeling. 

We hadn't brought suits but Brian dug around in one of the guest bedrooms and found sweat shorts. Mine were a little snug but they worked, and the water -- well, I'm not much for swimming, but I've got no objection to cooling off. Brian swam a couple of laps while I sat on the shallow end steps. He's like a fucking merman in the water. 

I love watching him, which all by itself feels a little odd sometimes, but the oddness always fades the minute he gets close. And he got close, in the pool, with his father and Renee thirty yards away. 

Nothing too up close and personal, but he didn't hesitate to kiss me. "Thanks for coming up," was all he said. 

Not a problem. 

Renee fixed us sandwiches before she left. Told Earl where his dinner was, but he barely looked at her. 

"Dad, we're heading out. You need anything?" Brian asked after we'd dried off and eaten. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

If it had been me, I'd have been pissed, but Brian didn't even blink. "Your refrigerator broke down." 

"You fix it?" 

"Yeah," Brian said, and it hit me then that Earl really wasn't with us entirely. He had a glassy look around his eyes, and the smell of alcohol and cigarettes was pretty strong if you got close. 

"You still a cop?" 

That one really floored me. How could his father, an ex-cop, not know that? 

"Yeah, Dad." 

"That your new partner?" Earl asked, looking at me. 

"No. Dom's a friend, dad. I don't have a partner at the moment," Brian said, and he didn't. No replacement for Tony yet, but not from lack of trying. 

"Oh, right. You let your partner get killed." 

What the fuck? Earl remembered some things, apparently. I was surprised Brian had even told him. Let his partner get killed? It pissed me off and must have shown in my face because Brian ignored his father and looked at me, shaking his head. 

"Supposed to look out for your partner, Brian. That's what you have one for. You don't get to be so careless with someone else's life. You know that now, don't you? Not paying attention, thinking you know it all." 

"Right," Brian said, and he was pushing me back toward the door. "I'll see you, Dad," he said. 

Earl was still ranting when we left. Not yelling, just talking, like there was anyone listening. Brian didn't even look fazed: not mad, not sad. Nothing. 

I was probably pissed enough for the both of us, but I put a check on it. "He always like that?" 

"Nah. Today was good," Brian said and reached up and grabbed the back of my neck. "Don't even waste the energy getting mad, Dom." 

"Your father's an asshole." 

"Yeah, he is," Brian said with a chuckle, but it only lasted a second. "He doesn't remember half of what he says, Dom." 

"Why'd you tell him about Tony?" 

Brian put his sunglasses on and tossed me the car keys. "I didn't. I was supposed to come up the weekend of the funeral. I told Renee. She probably said something. You might have noticed," he said with a grin. "She tends to just kind of talk...sometimes Dad pays attention, sometimes not. She lets him know what's going on." 

"She come every day?" 

"Pretty much. She used to be an LPN. He can do most things for himself if he's sober enough. She stops in and makes sure he's not dead. Cleans the house once a week. Does most of the shopping. They've got a routine going." 

"He still drive?" I asked. 

"Some." We were pulling out of the neighborhoods and up to a business strip, and Brian pointed to the liquor store. "There.” He pointed to the diner across the street, "and there on some mornings. Gets coffee and breakfast and the paper." 

That was pretty much all Brian volunteered. He didn't avoid my questions, and he didn't seem tense, but there was something -- it was just strange. Like some other version of Brian O'Conner was sitting in the car with me talking about somebody else's father. I mean I get that Earl wasn't always like this but it had been what, fifteen years? Long enough for Brian to find some other way to deal with it I guess. 

I stopped asking questions about halfway back and Brian didn't try to fill in the silence, watching the desert give way to something less barren. 

I think better when I drive but between Brian's silence and the weirdness of meeting his father, the drive wasn't helping to make anything clearer. I didn't suddenly have some better handle on who Brian was. I pretty much knew what I needed to. Had to or I wouldn't still be around. Mostly, I just found myself understanding a little better how Brian could just let shit slide past him. He said his father's...what? Anger? Disappointment in Brian? Had been pretty mild. 

My father never treated me like that, drunk or sober -- but drunk, my dad was more amiable than not. A pretty happy drunk, sitting around with his buddies in the backyard. A social drunk, they'd call it now. 

But Brian was right. Earl O'Conner was more to be pitied than anything. Didn't stop me from wanting to kick his ass a little, and that was all about Brian. 

I wasn't impressed by Earl O'Conner at all, but I was damn impressed with his son. 

That was a couple of months ago. We hadn't heard anything and Brian hadn't called him recently as far as I knew. What I did know was that the refrigerator showed up on Brian's credit card, and a month ago, Brian got a check from his dad. He deposited it without any comment other than to tell me he had it. 

That seemed a little strange too, like Brian wanted to put some kind of a good light on his dad. Or maybe he just didn't want me to wonder where the extra money came from. We're not entirely sharing finances, but there's an account for the house, to cover the rent, utilities and the groceries. 

Easier for both of us since I'm losing a big chunk of my paycheck to pay off the reparation on the truck heists. It doesn't leave me with much. Brian offered to help, but...I've got some pride, and he's not making that much. Tight months I can go to Mia and pull something from the business accounts. I don't know why it bugs me to take money from Brian when I have no hesitation in going to my sister. 

Difference in family maybe, but that seems weird because Brian is as much family now as Mia...or he should be. Maybe we haven't quite closed that gap yet. Or maybe...I dunno, taking money from Brian for my debts is too much like...whoring. Taking advantage. Something. 

Except taking advantage of Brian is actually a lot harder than it seems. 

Meeting his dad made me wonder about his mom. It's just strange that both his parents are alive but he has so little to do with either of them. From what he said earlier, he talks to his mother, but I've never seen him do it. She lives in Boston, he told me that much. Has family there which means Brian does too -- maybe aunts and uncles, cousins, but he never hears from them. 

It's one of those things that is really, really different between me and Bri. For us, family is everything. I think Brian knows that, he seems to want that --with me, even with Mia. The family he chose, not the one he had. Having met his dad, I understand the urge to look elsewhere. 

I'm not a guy for the big picture...I mean there's this image of middle-class America, white and Protestant, that's like the standard. The ones who are supposed to have it all together. The inner-city families, the minorities, we're supposed to be fucked up...except everybody I know, the Latinos, the Italians, the Asians, all their families seem really tight, extended. Everybody knows their cousins, their second cousins...their wives' cousins. You know any family in Echo Park, and you pretty much know all their relatives in La Brea or Silverlake or LA, even down to Mexico. 

I wondered about his dad's side of the family, but never really found a reason to ask and like I said, Brian doesn't volunteer much. He'll answer a question but he doesn't bring it up. 

But the call from his mom was obviously unusual enough to distract him all through dinner. He got up once and called her anyway, but got no answer. 

Has to be close to midnight when she does call back, and we are already in bed, half asleep. Brian keeps the phone on his side, in case the precinct calls. Also, Brian wakes up pretty alert. Me, I've got fuzz in my brain for at least an hour. 

"Hi, Mom...what's up?" he asks after the hello. 

Then it's like someone gooses him and it isn't me. I'm just making sense of who's calling. He sits up and hits the light and I swear, but Brian doesn't notice. 

"When? When did it happen?" 

You have to know Brian to know that panic isn't something you hear in his voice very often. I mean, doing what he does for a living, keeping a cool head in a crisis is pretty much SOP. But it's there, and suddenly I'm wide awake, heart pounding. 

"No. I can get off. Do you need me to come get you?" 

Apparently not. "I can meet you down there. At Community? No, I can call it in. I'm off tomorrow anyway. Yeah. Yeah. I'll see you in a few hours." 

He hangs up the phone, and I push up behind him. "What is it? Bri?" 

He has a glazed look to his face. I've seen it before, when he got the news that his partner was dead. Hands on his shoulders bring him back. 

"My dad had a stroke this morning. Mom...she's at LAX. She called earlier from Cleveland. She's gonna rent a car and head out there." 

Just like that, Brian is back. Out of bed and hunting for clothes. I get up, too. 

"Dom, you don't--" 

"Shut up," I tell him. I'm still not fully awake, but damn if I'm going to let Brian go hurtling down the highway minutes after hearing his father had a stroke. Whatever their relationship, this is still a big one and the call sounded a little short on details. 

We toss a change of clothes in a bag and are on the road in fifteen minutes. "Why didn't Renee call you?" I ask him. 

"She tried. Called the precinct...they didn't put the call through, so she called my mother." 

Awake or not, this is getting weirder. "She knows how to get in touch with your mother?" 

"Yeah. They used to be friends. Still are, I guess." 

And Pamela is apparently still keeping tabs on her -- what ex-husband? 

"Are they divorced?" 

"I don't know." 

It doesn't sound like he cares. 

Man, the O'Conner family just gets weirder and weirder. 

I want to drive, but Brian says he's fine, and as we push toward Barstow, we have to be doing 100 mph. Better for him, I guess, and he seems cool enough, settling in. 

I think I doze because the next thing I know, Brian is slowing down, but still hitting speed bumps a little too fast. I look up to see the bright sign for Barstow Community Hospital, and Brian is heading for the parking garage. 

It's pretty small, two stories, and Brian seems to know where to go, taking me through the emergency room, which is really quiet. The whole place is quiet. Not surprising since it's only a little after one in the morning, though in LA, the emergency rooms are probably just hitting primetime. 

The ICU is noisier because of monitors and shit, and Brian barrels in, but I take it a little slower since the last time I was in a Care Unit, it was Brian lying in one of the beds. Gives me the creeps, being here. Brian checks the desk and the night nurse looks surprised to see anyone. 

"Visiting hours are over, sir," she says. 

"I know, but they brought my dad in here earlier today, and I just heard a couple of hours ago. Earl O'Conner?" 

She still looks hesitant, but Brian pulls out his badge. "I just wanted to get some idea of his condition. Maybe just look in on him for a minute?" 

It takes some talking, but finally she lets him through, and I jump on Brian's heels before she can protest. 

It isn't anything like the unit Brian was in. It's smaller, cubicles separated by curtains rather than glass. Can't miss Earl though, even if he does look kind of caved-in and well, really old. I mean, more than he had before. Bad color in his face, hair kind of nappy. I've seen people who have had strokes before...his face looks wrong, and it isn't just because he's oblivious to Brian's presence. 

I shift my gaze to Brian and frown. I don't like what I'm seeing, which is mainly nothing. He's staring at his dad, like he sometimes does at his training manuals, taking it in but just storing the information, not really learning it. He reaches out and touches his father's arm, traces the IV line, then glances at the machines. 

Then he leans over, voice quiet. "Dad? It's Brian. I'm here. It's gonna be okay." 

Textbook reassurance. It sounds odd and wrong, but then again, what do I know? Brian doesn't handle shock like most people, doesn't handle fear like most people. 

He closes his hand over his father's and holds it for a moment and leans over him again, whispering this time. I don't hear what he says but for the briefest moment, that mask of his slips. 

What was I saying about fear? 

Maybe I'm wrong, but it doesn't feel like it, and I come up behind him, close enough to let him know I'm there. Brian straightens up and leans back, not really letting me take his weight but enough that we're touching. He puts his father's hand back down. 

"I'll be around, Dad. You just rest up," he says, and then he's backing up, almost fast enough to make me stagger, but he reaches back and grabs my arm, steadies me. 

Steadies himself. 

Back at the nurse's station, he can't get much more out of her than guarded optimism. The doctor makes his rounds at eight, and Brian leaves his cell phone number, asks her to have the doctor call. 

"Let's go," he says, and heads back out. 

"Should we wait for your mom?" I ask him as we head back downstairs. 

"She won't come here. We'll meet her at the house," Brian says, and again, this all feels so very wrong that I can't even get my brain around it. 

Fifteen minutes later we're pulling up to a dark house. Brian leaves his car in the driveway and then has to fumble around in the dark to get the key in. No streetlights, the sky dark; the house looks abandoned. 

We make it in and hit the lights, and Brian is suddenly a man with a purpose, heading to the bedroom side of the house. 

His dad's room hasn't changed much since I last saw it. It smells nasty: stale and sour and foul, cigarettes, burn marks on the carpet. It takes me a minute to realize what the other smell is, and Brian catches it too. Urine, shit...the bed is gross. I'm guessing a stroke doesn't give you warning enough to make it to the john. 

"Oh, man," Brian says, but then he's stripping the bed. I open the windows and feel both glad and cowardly that Brian is dealing with the sheets. I mean, he's dealt with smells like this before right? Homicides, abandoned kids...death by natural causes... 

He get the washer started and tosses it all in, the water hot, more bleach than either the sheets or blankets can probably stand up to. Then he's moving again, and I'm kind of following in his wake...into the bathroom to grab cleaners and rags. 

The mattress pad is plastic and it hits me then that Brian has done this before, here, with his dad. Not the stroke, but with something like it. "What are you doing?" 

He sprays down the pad and wipes it clean. "I don't want her to have to deal," he says. The cloth he used goes into the washer too. "Sheets are in the closet," he tells me, and I go find them and remake the bed. That I can do. 

"You hungry?" he asks when we're done, and I follow him back into the kitchen. I'm not, but I look anyway. There's a lot of food. 

"Coffee maybe?" I ask him, and Brian seems to focus for a minute, finds the stuff, makes a pot. A beer would be good, but there isn't any. Brian's dad looks to be skipping the hops in favor of the malt whiskey. 

Brian is staring at the coffee pot as it drips, and I come up behind him, put my hands on his shoulders again. 

He flinches a little, hunches over, and I squeeze a little harder. "Bri?" This is not territory I feel that comfortable in. Brian was mad when Tony was killed, mad and guilty and sad but mostly mad. I'm an expert in knowing how much anger can cover, but there isn't anyone, anything for Brian to be mad at. 

Of the two of us, I'm definitely easier about the whole touching, holding thing than Brian. Not that he shies from any of it, or can't plaster himself against me for no other reason than because he wants to, but he's more likely to talk than touch. I ease my grip and slide an arm around his shoulder, leaning in. He's still got his hands on the counter but his chin drops, resting on my forearm. 

I'd rather see his face, but this works. He relaxes a little and pushes back, shoulders up enough for me to rest my chin on one. I skip the textbook comfort, because this is not okay, and it may not be fine. "We'll deal," I tell him, making sure he knows it's us. Not him. That may take a few more times of me reminding him, but I'd rather start here. 

We hear a car in the drive, and Brian gets his shit together enough to turn around, plant a kiss on my mouth and smile like he means it. "Come on. You can meet my mom." 

Pamela O'Conner, or whoever, pretty much explains where Brian got his looks. She's got to be late forties or early fifties, like Earl, but it doesn't show. The blonde hair is natural, lighter than Brian's, and there's no contacts in the world that can give you the blue eyes she and Brian share. She's pretty damn tall too -- not as tall as me, but above the national average. She's kind of lean, like Brian, not a whole lot of curves, and I should be embarrassed by the assessment if only because she's Brian's mother, but she's a nice looking woman and I'd be an idiot not to see it. Not glamour beautiful -- I think Brian outstrips both his parents in that department, but it's easy to see how he looks like he does when you think of Pamela and Earl together. The right genes in the right combination at the right time. 

We meet her in the driveway, and she stops trying to pull her bag out of the car and just stares for a moment. "Brian..." not a question, not relief -- if anything she sounds nervous about seeing him. 

"Hi, Mom," Brian says, and he's the one that moves, gives her a hug that's not quite affectionate but not cold either. I slip by them both to pick up her bag. "Mom, this is Dom, Dominic Toretto." 

She pulls back and offers her hand, shakes mine short and firm. "I'm... Pamela...O'Conner," she says. "We spoke...you're..." 

"A friend of Brian's," I say, feeling like she needs an out. She takes it with a smile that kind of changes her whole face. 

Okay, so she can be beautiful. "Anything else you need?" I ask, tilting my head toward the car. 

"No, no...just the one bag," she says, and then settles her purse over her shoulder and heads inside, Brian and me filing in behind her. 

There's a weird moment's hesitation when she goes inside, stopping to look, and I guess that's normal. This was her home for years. I give Brian the eye and he jerks his chin up. "Front guest room," he says, and then offers his mother coffee. 

A few minutes between them is probably not a bad idea. The front bedroom is clean. I turn on a light, leave the bag on the bed, check the sheets. Earl's room is in the middle, the master. Brian's old room is on the back side of the house. Our stuff is in there. The bed's only a double, but that's not a problem -- or at least it isn't unless Brian's mother makes it one. 

I dick around for another minute or so and then realize I'm not hearing anything. When I get to the kitchen, Pamela has her coffee, Brian has his, and there's a mug waiting for me. 

They're not talking. Pamela looks really aware of the fact, and Brian's got that look on his face again. The "nothing can touch me" look that I hate probably more than anything. 

Well, this is bullshit. "Your flight okay?" 

She smiles again, grateful. "It was fine...long, but fine. Thank you for coming with Brian." 

"Not a problem," I tell her, and pick up my mug. The coffee is strong which means Brian isn't planning to sleep or doesn't think he will. "You live in Boston?" 

"In Allston, yes," she says. "My sister lives there. Brian's Aunt Barbara." 

"How is she?" Brian asks, getting with the program. 

"She's fine. She made all the plane arrangements for me. Well, Anita did...that's her daughter," Pamela said, glancing at me, and she was off, talking about family I didn't know Brian had. From the look on Brian's face, I'm not even sure Brian knew he had that much family. 

Pretty much explains Brian's ability to talk about anything under any situation, though. It's not even just chatter. She asks me about my family and shows real interest. Questions that weren't really nosy, and I have all her attention. 

It's why Brian talking so much doesn't really bother me, because amid all the words, Brian can also listen, focus in and be interested, no matter what. His mom is the same way, maybe even more so. Given different circumstances I'd have probably spilled more to her than I would to my priest in confession. 

This is obviously not a trait Earl O'Conner shares with his wife and son. 

By the end of it she knows how Mia is doing in school, how long I've owned the garage, that my folks are dead although not the details and really -- no surprises there. That is a topic cutting a little too close to the current edge. 

"Well, I should probably get a couple of hours sleep," she says and is up, cleaning up, moving around the kitchen like nothing's changed since she lived here, rinsing out the mugs. 

"We put you in the front," Brian says, leaning against the counter with his hands braced on it. I have my back to the refrigerator. 

She nods. "Do we need to make up the sofa bed for you or Dom?" 

Pin drop, my ass. It's a goddamn elephant in the living room. 

"No. We're good," Brian says, and meets her gaze. Pamela looks uncomfortable, glances at me. "I could sleep in your father's--" 

"Mom. Don't worry about it," Brian says. 

Her mouth snaps shut and she nods, but I see the flash in her eyes. Brian isn't the only one with a temper or a stubborn streak. "All right," she says though, surrendering. She moves in and touches Brian's arm, kisses his cheek. "I'll see you in the morning. Good night, Dominic." 

"'Night, Pamela." 

When she's gone, Brian hoists himself up on the counter, long legs dangling. By the look on his face, he might plan to stay there all night like some weird gargoyle. 

Not on my watch. I move over, in front of him, in between his legs and rest my hands on his hips. The tension eases a little and he reaches up to knead at my shoulders. Whatever this is, it really doesn't feel like Brian is embarrassed about us. It never really occurred to me he would be. It's not like he shouts it from the rooftops or sends out announcements through interoffice mail. It just is and Brian makes no apologies for it. 

It's none of her business. That pretty much sums it up. It's none of his mother's business and therefore not open for comment, discussion, or review. 

"You think you could try and sleep?" I ask him, pretty sure of the answer, but he surprises me and nods. 

"Lie down anyway," he agrees, but he doesn't move. I give his thighs a squeeze, a little shake. 

"Talk to me, Brian," I tell him, and that is a weird thing for me to say under any circumstances, but it's starting to freak me out a little, this sudden disconnect between Brian's brain and his mouth. 

He works his jaw, something he wants to say then, but the words don't come and finally he just drops his chin and shakes his head. I shake him again. "Do not make me play twenty questions," I warn him, and that gets a little smile. He twists away slightly and picks up his coffee cup, sipping at it. It's got to be cold. 

"I don't...this is just weird," he says finally. "Having her here. Dad...I mean why come when he's not even going to fucking know she's here?" 

It occurs to me that that may be exactly why Pamela thought she could come back. I don't have the whole story. I've got Brian's story, the bare bones of it...I don't have Pamela's story at all and I can't ignore my own curiosity about it. I can't get my brain around it, why any mother who wasn't at total mental case would leave her only child with a man she already knew had gone off the deep end. Not that I can claim to know Pamela at all. Maybe she is a psycho, but if she is, she's got it pretty well hidden under nice and normal. I can give her the benefit of the doubt, for now. "Maybe she didn't want you to deal with it alone." 

Brian snorts at that. "I think I can deal with this kind of shit better at twenty-eight than I could at fifteen," he says flatly. Ooh, there's some of that anger I know Brian keeps a tight lid on. Doesn't surprise me that he's letting it out. He's tired and this is definitely not a stress-free situation. 

I tug him forward because this is not helping. "Come on..." I urge, and he slides off the counter, leans against me for the briefest of moments before wiping a hand across his eyes. He hits the kitchen light and we maneuver through the house. There's still a light on under Pamela's door, but it's firmly closed. 

A pit stop and a quick wash later Brian manages to shuck off his shirt and lay down on the double bed, still in his jeans while I strip down all the way to my boxers and nudge him to get under the blankets. He's still so tense, I'd swear his mother must have rammed an invisible 2x4 up his spine when I left them alone. 

Flexible 2x4, though, because when I roll up against his back, his body curves to fit mine, just like at home, and he relaxes some. I let my fingers rub over his stomach, down under the denim. I'm not trying for anything, don't reach for his dick, or do anything with my mouth other than press it to his shoulder before closing my eyes. A few seconds later Brian unsnaps his jeans so he can get his hand over mine, lacing our fingers together. 

Also not about sex. Not right now and it has nothing to do with either of us being afraid to freak his mother out. 

I know he's awake. There's still tension there, and he keeps shifting, only a little bit, trying not to disturb me. When Brian sleeps, he sleeps like the dead. He can wake up just as fast, but he doesn't move much. Why he doesn't wake up with every limb numb from lack of circulation, I have no idea, but if I fall asleep with him on my chest, at some point I'll wake up and have to move. Brian will just roll over and come morning, he's wherever he last fell. Scared the shit out of me early on, when he was still trying to recover from the damage to his shoulder and to his chest. I didn't think anyone could be that still unless they were heavily drugged or dead. 

I'm tired, no denying it, from a full day's work and tension and yeah, worry. I really don't have much of a reference for this. I was young when my mother died, only a little older than Brian when his dad got shot. I remember my mom going into the hospital, coming home and then going back. That time, she never came out again. It's not something I've given a lot of thought to over the years. My dad died quick. Ugly but quick, and that I have thought about a lot because I haven't ever been able to erase his death from my brain, not his death, not the fire, not what happened afterward, not my time in prison. All of it is tangled together in one huge ugly painful knot that really hasn't gotten any easier over time. 

But this is still different, because Brian isn't a kid, and whatever he feels for his father, I'm not sure it's anywhere close to what I felt for mine. His mother, either. If Brian didn't already seemed angry enough for both of us I might be pissed off that he was here playing the good son to two people who apparently didn't deserve the titles of good parents. Certainly not now, and I don't know that they ever did. 

Well, that's not entirely true. Brian is a good man. I'm biased, but he's a good friend -- even my sister knows it, and she and Brian probably got off to an even rockier start than he and I did, and that's saying something. He's a decent person who cares about other people, who loves deeply. Who's willing to risk a lot for people he cares about. Yeah, sometimes he can be jerk, and sometimes that twisty brain of his - the part that steps back and looks at things like they don't affect him -- can make me a little nuts. He's got a temper that he keeps a tight lid on -- more than I do. Brian's ability to put up with some kinds of bullshit frustrates the hell out of me at times. 

But he's got really clear ideas of what's right and what's wrong. He's ballsy and brave and generous. He can also be stubborn as shit, put distance between him and other people --including me -- in five seconds flat and make you wonder what the hell just blew by you. And just as fast he'll be killing himself to make sure you're okay, to make sure if there's anything he can do, he gets it done. 

Maybe it's a bad gauge, but he brings all of that to our bed, too. It gets distilled down, purified, all that energy and intensity. He teases me about the double dose of passion I got from my father's Italian roots and my mother's Cuban heritage. All that Latino heat and that Italian romance. But I get Brian in bed and I gotta wonder if some distant ancestor didn't slip a little south of Ireland and England and pick up a few tips of his own. Brian might be cool as ice on the job, every day, when there's problem that he needs to deal with, but once I've got him home, when it's private and just us... 

You don't get that kind of passion out of a book, is all I'm saying. And you can't fake it. 

Maybe it wasn't Pamela or Earl O'Conner, but someone had taught him to respect himself and other people. Someone taught him how to love. But what I'm seeing here and now, what I'm starting to get a grip on...is that he also knows that love can go wrong, That it can get ugly. That it can hurt like hell. 

Brian sucks in a sharp breath, muffling the sound, but his stomach flutters under my fingers, then again and I crowd a little closer, pulling him back against me. His fingers tighten on mine, but that's all. He doesn't shake, or sniffle, or wipe at his face, just that uneven breathing that cuts me deep, that makes my throat close up, makes me want to say things to him that aren't true and are impossible to promise. 

Like tell him everything will be okay. 

* * *

We sleep at some point. At least, I do. Brian's cell phone rings and jerks us both out of whatever passed for sleep. It takes me a minute to find the clock in the room, an old black electric radio clock with the number that flip over rather than digital. If it's right, it's a little after six. 

"Yeah, I can be there in a few minutes," Brian is saying, already sitting up, then he signs off and stands, jerking his jeans up and refastening them before turning around to kneel on the bed. He skates his hand over my skull. "That was the hospital...some specialist, vascular, is coming by." 

I push up, and Brian looks like he wants to tell me to stay but he doesn't. "I'm going to wake her up," he says and kisses me swiftly, then he's gone. 

I need coffee and a shower, but I don't think I'm going to get either, not right now. I dig out clean clothes and duck into the bathroom and run smack into Pamela -- wearing a robe and a gown and looking a whole lot older than she did yesterday. She looks surprised to see me. 

"I can...uh, use the master." 

"I'll go," I say and back out. Hey, she got in there first and as I open the master bedroom door, I remember the day before. The room still smells of bleach and cigarettes and damp, but it doesn't make me queasy like it did before. 

The bathroom is at least clean and I dig around for a washcloth and towel, then hunt around to find a razor, guessing Earl won't know or care. 

The medicine cabinet looks more like a pharmacy. Seriously. I'm a little stunned at the amount of drugs that are packed in there. I find the razor, but I'm staring at the labels. Some of them I know. 

The street value on the painkillers Earl's got would pay our rent for months. It hits me then, what Brian has said, about the fact that his father never really healed from the bullet that shattered his pelvis. I've been in pain. I watched Brian struggle with it for months, but all the while it was easing, he was getting better. He could still get a nasty twinge if he did something stupid with his shoulder. I had the same problem with mine. But it passed. 

How did anyone deal with it if it didn't? Not months, but years. At some point the drugs stopped working right? You got addicted but they wouldn't ease the pain, they might just dull it a little. 

There was other stuff in there too, things I'd heard about on the TV or seen in magazines, but still. If Earl really needed all this stuff...well the stroke seemed a whole lot less of a surprise suddenly. 

I run the water, find shaving cream and am about halfway through scraping beard off my jaw when I hear Brian calling me. I answer and he sticks his head in. 

"Almost done," I tell him. My head will have to wait. 

"It's okay. Mom's still getting dressed," he says and offers me a mug. Coffee. I grin at him. 

"You really do love me," I tell him, and he smiles, ducks his head and then looks up again. For a brief minute, all the tension and fear in his face is gone. 

"Naw. You're just good in bed," he says and rubs at his own jaw. 

I make the last swipe on my chin. "You want this?" I offer him the razor and he shakes his head. I wipe at my face and put the razor back in the medicine cabinet and suddenly Brian is behind me, reaching up for the pills. 

The tension's back. "We should probably take these with us. I sure as hell don't know what he's on," he says, and hunts around under the sink until he finds a plastic bag. 

We dump it all, even stuff that's not prescription, and then Brian checks the bedroom, finds more pills beside the bed and takes those too. 

By the time we have that cleared, and I've swallowed down half a cup of coffee, Pamela is ready. She's dressed a little more formally than she was yesterday, wearing a dress, low heels, her hair up. Now she looks like someone's mother. 

All Brian did was drag on a clean t-shirt. We take Pamela's rental -- the Mustang is good for two, but nobody should be asked to fold themselves into the back seat. I put her in the passenger side of the sedan she rented and slid in back so Brian can drive. 

I feel a little extraneous. I've got no standing here, and I honestly don't know what kind of expectations or outcome either Brian or Pamela want. What their best hopes would be. That Earl makes a complete recovery or that he slips away quiet? Ends up in a home somewhere? If I could be grateful about anything regarding the loss of my folks...it would be this, not having to watch them get old -- but even that's not entirely true. Even at my age, there are still times when I miss my father so much I can't breathe. When I'll hear some woman somewhere say something to one of her kids and feel that familiar jolt, knowing I'd heard my mother say the same thing at some time. When Mia will look at me or laugh, and it's almost eerie how much she reminds me of my mother. 

Brian catches my eye in the rearview, and suddenly it doesn't matter what Brian or Pamela want or hope for. I'm here for one reason and it's enough. 

There's no separate consultation room for families at this community hospital. Dr. Hibbert meets with them -- with us, right in the middle of the ICU, going over the details, the amount of blockage, how much of Earl's brain has failed. What the likely prognosis is. It's bad. I mean there's nothing good about any of this, but this is bad. He's already having trouble breathing, his heart's not in good shape, fluid building up around it, and on top of that...the chances of physical withdrawal from some of the medications he's been on is likely to make it even harder. 

"Does he have a living will?" Hibbert asks. He asks Pamela, who looks uncertain, but I watch the blood drain from Brian's face. 

"Yeah, he does," Brian says, sounding a lot steadier than he looks. "It's at the...at the house. Power of Attorney, too." He doesn't say who holds it, but I don't have to be a genius to figure it out and it's not Pamela. 

Hibbert nods. "If you could bring those in so we can have them on file." 

"There's no chance of recovery?" Pamela asks. 

"There's always a chance, Mrs. O'Conner," Hibbert says, and I'd like to punch him. "But I'd be lying if I said I thought any recovery would extend the quality of his life." 

Brian was grinding his teeth so hard I can hear him. "Is he aware of anything?" 

"That's harder to say," Hibbert says. "We get some reaction on the left side. Pupil dilation. He can probably hear, but no way to know how much he actually understands. Sometimes comprehension is greater than expression. So...you might be careful what you say when you're with him. If you want a DNR on him we'll need that paperwork, Mr. O'Conner." 

Hibbert leaves them, and Brian stares up at the ceiling. "I'll go get the paperwork. You want to see him, Mom?" 

Pamela looks uncertain but she pulls it together and nods, and Brian walks her over to the cubicle but he doesn't stay with her. He's already got the keys out but he stops in front of me. "I won't be long. Would you...I need some time," he says, and I'm not sure I want him to be alone right now, but he's a grown man. I cup the back of his neck and press our foreheads together. 

"I'll be here." It's all I can give him, but it's enough, maybe more than enough. Brian doesn't even look around before he presses his lips to mine briefly then he's gone, jogging down the hall to hit the stairwell. 

There is nothing more uncomfortable than a waiting room chair and the ones here seem to more the rule than exception so I keep standing, leaning against the wall at least until Pamela comes out. She looks around and spots me, but looks confused. 

"He went back to the house, to get the papers," I tell her and she blinks. 

"Oh. He didn't say," she says and does sit down, right on the edge of one of the chairs, her purse in her lap. 

The silence drags on for a couple of minutes before I decide to quite pretending this is all somehow normal. Besides, like I said, I don't have Pamela's story yet. 

"How long since you've seen him?" I ask, and Pamela looks up at me, startled. 

"Uh...Earl or Brian?" she asks. 

Ooh. "Earl." 

"Five years...but we didn't really talk to each other. I didn't come back here for him. Brian was...he'd just finished the police academy." 

"I didn't know his dad had gone." I know jack shit about Brian graduating from the police academy. And Pamela came down to see Brian graduate. From Boston. This is like one of those huge puzzles where all the pieces look the same but only fit one way...I fucking hate those puzzles. 

"He didn't. I went. I thought one of us should," she said and took a deep breath. "How long have you known Brian?" 

"About a year." Shy a few months and sometimes I wonder if the six months I spent in Chino should count. There are days when I feel like I've known Brian forever. Other times, when I feel like I hardly know him at all. 

"You were....when his partner was killed?" 

Well, for an absentee mom, she knew her shit. I nod. "What, you got spies on him?" 

She smiles, a quick one. Changes her whole face. "Something like that. Old friends," she says. "This must seem pretty strange to you...our family." 

I give her points for not ignoring the elephant either. "It's a little out of the ordinary, yeah," I tell her, and surrender to the hard chair so she won't keep having to look up. "Brian doesn't talk about it much." 

She smiles again and leans forward, clasping her hands between her knees. It's a weird mirror of how Brian sits. "No. Not much he could say, is there? His father is an abusive drunk and his mother abandoned him. I'm glad he doesn't make excuses for either of us." 

She doesn't even sound bitter. Not apologetic. She keeps that same even tone. I have no idea what to say to that and she looks at me. She's got that same look Brian does, the one that doesn't flinch, doesn't waver. Like she actually sees more than you think she can with just her eyes. "I'm glad you were there. When I called last night." 

I'm still stuck with nothing to say. Was that approval and do I care? No, not really, to ether one. 

"Me, too," I say instead. 

She leans back and puts her head against the wall. Closes her eyes. 

"You want some coffee or something?" I ask, because I'm not sure she wants my company and I'm pretty sure I don't want hers. 

"That would be great, thank you," she says and digs into her purse. 

"I got it," I tell her. "When Brian comes back--" 

"I'll tell him." 

The nurse tells me how to get to the cafeteria. There's a machine on the hall but I don't think I want or need to drink that crap. The small cafeteria's not hard to find. It's mostly self-serve, and I get three coffees and grab a couple of breakfast sandwiches that look fresh. 

This kind of shit should bring families together, but I gotta wonder, if Earl dies, if there's anything at all that still ties Brian and his mother to each other. And Earl looks to be some pretty unreliable glue, even before this. 

Brian isn't back, and Pamela thanks me for the coffee and the food, breaking the croissant into sections and eating it on a napkin in her lap. "So, how did you meet Brian?" she asks. 

Yet another minefield and I'm half-tempted to give her the whole truth just to see what happens. And then it hits me that she really doesn't know. That the chances are good that she didn't even know Brian was hurt, or that he'd been in the hospital. 

And how do you tell someone's mother that you were the reason? How do you tell her that her son could have died and chances are she wouldn't have known? I didn't even know who Brian had listed as an emergency contact. I still don't know. 

"Dominic?" she asks again, and I realize I'm staring. 

"On a case he was working on," I finally get out. I almost tell her to ask Brian, but I'm not dumping this on him. 

She's watching me, expecting more, but I can't give it to her. Part of it's my own embarrassment. Part of it's some serious anger building up with no place to land. "Why are you here?" I ask instead. Maybe it's none of my business, but suddenly Brian's question last night seems to be pretty appropriate, and I wonder. Why now? If Brian has the power of attorney for his dad, if Brian's the one who's been taking care of Earl's shit for all these years, what is she doing here? 

She settles back, maybe a little shock at my question but she covers it. "Renee called me and told me it was serious. That Earl might die. If he does..." she hesitates then takes a deep breath. "I'm still his wife." 

"Really?" I say, flatly, not exactly liking the paths my brain is taking. "Never divorced him?" 

"No." 

So pretty much, if Earl died, everything goes to her. Any will notwithstanding. I had to wonder if California's community property laws would just lay it all -- the house, whatever money Earl had in his bank accounts -- on her. 

"Nice for you," I say, and I don't really care that it comes out nasty. 

She colors up the way Brian does, pink to her ears and down her throat. "I didn't come here hoping he would die, Dominic." 

"No. Then why?" 

"I didn't want Brian to have to deal with this alone, if he did," she says. "I didn't know...when I called, that he wasn't alone," she adds a little more quietly. 

Points for being observant. "No, he's not." 

She's silent for a long time, mouth set in a thin line. "I realize that it may be hard for you to believe, given the circumstances, but I do love my son, Dominic. Being a shitty mother doesn't stop that part of it." 

Maybe not, but being a shitty mother doesn't exactly giver her rights, either. Maybe it did when Brian was a kid...but he's not that any more. And really, I'm not in the mood to dance around Pamela's feelings that much. 

"He was fifteen, Pamela. And your husband wasn't exactly in a position to take care of him." This may be ground I shouldn't be treading on, but I want to know. I don't know if it's because I'd really like to hate her or whether I'd rather not care about her, or if it's because this is at least part of how Brian became the man he is. The man I love. 

She makes a little sound that could be laughter, but it's not quite. "Dominic, at fifteen, Brian was..." 

If she says able to take care of himself I may have to leave before I hit her. 

"...stubborn. And angry. At me. Even before I left. He was angry with me. I'd have taken him with me if I could have. But he would...he would have run away, come back here." She chews on her lip. "I'm his mother. I was supposed to _fix_ it -- I couldn't.." 

Tears now, but no sobbing. She even cries like Brian does. "It's not an excuse. Every teenager hates his parents at some point or another..." she wipes at her eyes, using the greasy napkin from her breakfast. "The day I told Brian I thought we should go away for awhile...he packed my suitcases himself," she says finally, looking at me. "We didn't fight, he didn't yell. He just said if that's what I was going to do, I should just do it." 

"And you did." 

She nods. "About a month later, but yes. I did. I won't try to describe what it was like, not with Earl, not with Brian." 

I don't know what to think of that. I'm not sure I want to know. Brian said his father was abusive -- but abuse can take a lot of forms, a lot of shapes. 

"I was gone for about six months. When I came back, nothing much had changed. Earl hadn't...and Brian...Brian ignored me. Treated me...pretty much like he does now. Polite, distant. Like I'm a guest. It's still not an excuse, but Earl didn't want me, and Brian..." 

Didn't need her, want her...didn't care. Except I don't think that's entirely true, and I wonder if Pamela has even spent enough time with him to know the difference. 

"He needed somebody," I say and she nods again, agreeing with me. "He did time...went to juvie." 

"I know that. I was there when he got out," she says, and that catches me off guard. I didn't know that; another puzzle piece that looks like it should fit but doesn't. "I was...in LA the two years he served. I couldn't be _here_ , but I was...here." 

I get up, because I'm so tense my bones ache. Pamela's eyes are dry again and she takes a deep breath. "I don't want anything from him, Dominic. But I can be here for him, in any way he'll let me. I don't expect him to ever _depend_ on me...or trust me. No matter how grown up he is," she says with a little quirk to her lips. "If Earl dies...I'm not here to cheat Brian out of his inheritance. I'm not here to make it harder for him." 

But she is making it harder for him, just by being here. I want to tell her that, almost do, but the elevator pings and there's Brian. He's got a folder in his hand and he stops only long enough to nudge my shoulder before going to the desk, blows right by his mom. 

The nurse has to make a call, and really there's not much we can do but sit and wait while somebody comes up and makes copies and slips them into Earl's medical record. Then Earl's other doctor shows up, an older guy. I hang back because it's pretty obvious he knows both Brian and Pamela...a family physician type, and at the moment I've had about as much of Brian's family beyond Brian as I can take. 

The Doc doesn't have any better news it looks like, and at one point Brian peels off to go see his father, while Pamela catches up with this old friend. I follow Brian, hang out at the edge of the curtains for a minute until Brian drops down into the chair by the bed. He doesn't say anything to his father, barely looks at him. I ease in behind him, dropping my hands on his shoulders like I did before, just to let him know he's not alone. 

"You should go back," he says after a couple of minutes. 

"What?" I'm not sure I hear that right. He gets up, stares at the monitors for a minute, then looks at me. 

"This could take a few days and there's nothing you can do," he says, and I'm still staring at him, trying to figure out why he thinks that matters at all. 

"It doesn't work that way, Bri," I tell him. Warn him, really. "This is...this is family, Brian. You and me, if nothing else." It kills me that I feel like I have to say that to him. It would be so easy to get pissed off when he pulls this shit. 

He moves in closer -- mixed signals across the board. "I signed the DNR order," he says quietly, reaches out like he wants to touch me, but drops his hand. "They'll keep him on oxygen and fluids, monitor him. Short of a miracle..." he shrugs. 

It doesn't make any sense at first, what he's saying. What he's trying to say. 

He's going to let his father die. Not like he can do anything to stop it, but I hear it finally. No intervention, not really, and already my brain is going to the fact that Earl isn't all that old, that maybe there's something they can do, different meds to try, other therapies, specialists. And I say that, all of it, and Brian listens, even agrees with me, that there's probably stuff they could do. "It's not what he'd want," he says at the end of it. 

"You've talked to him about this?" I want to take the words back as soon as I say them because Brian just closes up on me. On _me_. 

"Yeah. So you should go. I already called the station, put in for a leave. I'll call you." 

It comes back to me what Pamela said, when she told Brian they should leave. What Brian did, what he said. And suddenly that little puzzle piece makes a whole lot more sense. 

This is not my father. There wasn't anything anyone could do for my dad when he was killed. Nothing. It was over in an instant. But if it hadn't been -- I remember when my mother got sick. I really wasn't old enough to understand all of it, but I remember my dad talking to doctors, lots of them, to friends, family...looking for anything to try and keep my mother with us a little longer. If that were my dad lying in that bed, I'd probably be doing the same thing. No matter the cost, no matter the odds. 

But he isn't my father and it's not my call. 

"I'm gonna call the guys, make sure they have the garage covered," I tell him. "I may go back and pick up some stuff -- if we're gonna be here a few days." 

"Dom..." 

"Don't," I tell him. I sound like I'm pissed off and I am a little; at Brian, at myself, at Pamela and Earl. If I put in some extra effort I could probably be pissed off at the doctors and not a little annoyed at God Almighty at the moment. 

But I can't talk to Brian right now. We will talk...I don't care if I have to hold him down and get him drunk, but we will. "Let's go," I say, and Brian looks a little stunned. 

Pamela's timing is either perfect or sucks mightily. She pushes back the curtain, looks at both of us, and sees something in my face or Brian's that startles her. "I'll stay," she says. Brian looks ready to protest but whatever else Pamela O'Conner may be lacking, it really doesn't seem to be backbone. Not the regular kind anyway. "I slept on the plane and last night. Go, Brian. I'll call you if anything happens." 

Brian's jaw tightens and the stunned look is replaced by a little show of temper. "Whatever," he says and he's gone, out the door, not looking back. 

Pamela gives me a look that all but says, "Better you than me," and I roll my eyes and follow him. I swear I hear her chuckling behind me.  


* * *

I almost miss him. He doesn't go for the elevator, hits the stairs instead, and I suddenly have the feeling that if I don't catch him, he's gonna take the car and leave Pamela and me here. He's rounding the curve of the stairs as I hit the landing. 

"Brian!" I snap out at him, and he hesitates just long enough to look up; that's all I need. Well, that and a little prayer as I vault the railing and drop down in front of him on the stairs below. 

"Are you nuts?" he says, pounding down the stairs as I'm coming out of my crouch. Ow. I'm not fifteen anymore. "You could have broken your fucking neck!" 

This from a man who jumped from a moving car to a semi without a safety line. 

"I think we've pretty much established that both of us aren't playing with a full deck all the time." I lean on the railing, because really? Bad idea. My knees are aching all the way to my shoulders. Oh, well. "We can talk here or at the house. Or in the car. Your call." 

He still looks angry, maybe a little scared. "You couldn't just say that?" 

"Not the way you were motoring out of here. Are you pissed at me, your mother, or yourself, Bri?" Or your dad, but I don't think I'm ready to go there just yet. 

"I'm not mad." 

"Bullshit," I tell him, and that makes him scowl. Truth is, Brian's a great liar, but not about what he feels. Maybe it's just me, but it's been true nearly from the start and I'm no better. Sometimes Brian sees through me like I'm glass. I have a little more trouble -- I know when something's wrong, I just can't always see what it is at first. It's kind of like trying to figure out a weird shimmy in a car, or a hitch in an engine. Process of elimination takes time, but it works. "I'm not going anywhere, but I'd like to know why you think I should." 

He glares at me for a minute, then abruptly sits down on the stairs. "My mother's here." He makes it sound like a rational argument. 

"Yeah, so? If she wasn't, would you have told me to take a hike?" He doesn't like the way I say it. Too bad. Try harder, Bri. 

"It's just...this could take days, Dom." His voice gets a little softer and he rakes a hand through his hair. "I don't want you to be here, watch this. I don't want...this isn't something you need to go through again." 

You know, I suspected that was part of it. It's still stupid reasoning, and I don't feel any real satisfaction from being right. I gotta be careful, though. "I've never been through something like this," I tell him, and that makes him look at me. "Not this. Not with my dad, not with my mom...not with your partner. And even if I had? I'd still be here. Where would you be, if it were the other way around?" He stares up at me, but I'm not giving on this one. I head down the stairs. 

He doesn't follow me immediately, and I don't expect him to. I'm just as glad he doesn't. We could probably both use a little space. 

I find the rental and wait beside it, use my cell to call Vince, make sure he and Leon have it covered. Brian's not entirely wrong -- I don't think I can leave my business for more than a couple of days, not when I'm just starting to get customer base built back up. For anything that requires any kind of certified training -- neither Vince nor Leon have it. I'd have to go back for any custom work, too. But the regular stuff: tune-ups, oil changes, changing tires -- the bread and butter of running a garage -- they can handle that. But...Barstow is not _that_ far away. 

I want to call Mia, too, which seems kind of stupid. And unfair. For anything else, I talk to Brian. He's got a way of cutting through bullshit, playing devil's advocate, just not seeing things like I do. But this...as sure as I was with Brian in the stairwell, out here I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm only guessing at what's going through that pretty head of his. This isn't something I can punch through or outrace, and neither can Brian. If I could get Mia to talk to him, even -- well, she'd be a lot less heavy-handed about it than I am, but there's no guarantee that Brian wouldn't stonewall her, too. 

It's like he's suddenly a different person. Maybe he is -- either because of his mother or his father or both. I don't know what to make of Pamela. I really don't. She's not a flake and she's really not -- well, I wondered if she hadn't left all those years ago because maybe she was a little fragile, a little ditzy. But she's not. I still don't know if I even _like_ her, but she seems like a pretty tough lady. Which really has my brain going into overdrive about just how bad it was. 

I see Brian coming, but I only glance up at him. He looks unsure, but he also still has that set to his jaw. I don't know which one of us is more stubborn, but it looks like we might find out. 

He stops a couple of feet from me and shoves his hands in his pockets. "You're right. I wouldn't leave either," he says, and he looks uncomfortable but I don't know if it's because he just apologized or something else. 

"So, we're done with _that_ conversation, right?" I say, pushing a little. He nods, then closes the distance, but he just leans against the car next to me. 

"What else do I need to know?" I ask him after a minute. It's harder to ask him than it sounds. I always figured Brian would tell me what I needed to know, but I've been fooling myself. Brian's gonna tell me what he _thinks_ I need to know and no more. Maybe I should be pissed off about that, but it's always been true, I think. I just never noticed it before. 

I even understand it. If it had been me, it would have been about trust. It was exactly like that when we met, before I knew he was a cop, before I realized he was running _me_. I really was ready to cut him in, and I didn't understand it then, didn't like it -- the whole idea that I could _trust_ him after knowing him for just a few weeks. It was weird for me. I knew it. Mia knew it. Vince knew it. 

And the really fucking incredible thing about it is that I was right. If I hadn't gone with my gut, if I'd cut him off cold like I did a dozen other young hotshots ...where I'd be now, where any of us would be now, is fucking scary to think about. 

Other than my parents, I've never had anyone _protect_ me like Brian does. I don't like the idea that I need protecting. From anything. And no one I know besides Brian thinks I need protecting. I still don't think I do...I mean, I'm not exactly helpless. Sometimes I think I should resent it more than I do. 

But Brian's idea of protecting is pretty damn selective. If I'm stupid enough to get drunk and into a fight, he'll jump in to keep me from getting killed, but otherwise he just drags my ass home, puts ice on the bruises, and tells me I deserve what I get. Trust me on this. It's happened more than once. Some of my old favorite places to hang aren't exactly -- friendly -- to homos. There's always some asshole who's got to say something, who's got to put on the macho. Brian ignores it, them. Me, that whole turn the other cheek thing? Not my style. 

But Brian doesn't really take on my shit. Not with the team -- the ex-team. Not with my parole officer. But he's there. Trouble with the team that he had or they had with him, they worked it out. Yeah, we were pretty much a package deal, but he didn't use me as the excuse to try to find some middle ground there. I may be _why_ he did it. Actually, I know I am -- but I wasn't _how_ he did it. And I don't take on his shit -- not on the job, at least, because I can't. The last thing he needs is any of his cop buddies with me in their faces. But I can be there for him when it gets bad, like after Tony died. 

So, some of what Brian is doing makes sense, but not all of it, because this is different. I can't fix this for him. I can't make it better. I can't protect _him_ from this. 

And he doesn't need to protect me, but I do need to know what's going on. 

He takes a breath, a deep one that hitches, and it's like the tension in him arcs over to me. It's weird. A weird feeling. It's the kind of feeling I had when I was telling him about my dad, about how I ended up in prison. I never tell anyone that story, never talk about it and really try not to think about it. But I told Brian, who I barely knew, poured it out like opening a vein. And Brian listened like he got it. He understood it and maybe that was a lot of why he let me go, why he took a chance on me when no other cop -- maybe no one else but my family -- would have. 

It was hard as hell for me, but Brian can talk about anything, or so I've always thought. For him to be struggling with this, fighting it...I have that brief moment of wondering if I really, _really_ , want to know what's behind this whole situation. 

He turns around and braces both hands against the roof, stretched out. I'm watching him and something -- the lack of something -- catches my eye: the bracelet, the shitty little macramé twine bracelet is gone. The one Brian never takes off. It's a weird thing to notice with Brian obviously so freaked, but it scares me. I mean in that shiver up your spine way. 

"You know that rule I have," he says finally, still facing the car, not looking at me. "The one about...the cook doesn't clean?" 

Yeah, I know it. It's pretty funny, actually. It's a thing, you know? Doesn't matter where we are: home, at Mia's -- if you cook the meal, you don't wash the dishes. Leon and Vince and even Letty were surprised at a cook-out months ago. We fixed the meal, grilled, Mia put together the salads and stuff and the three of us kicked back in the living room and laughed our asses at the three of them, mostly at Vince and Leon because no way was Letty going to get stuck with doing all the dishes. "Yeah?" 

"That's my dad's rule," he says quietly. "When I was a kid, my mom didn't work, you know? She stayed at home, but my dad, even though he did...she'd get dinner ready and after...he wouldn't let her wash the dishes. Not even to load the dishwasher. He did it. For years. And when I was old enough, I helped. I spent a lot of time with my dad in the kitchen. Sometimes mom would sit with us and they'd talk. Other times...she'd do other stuff, like laundry or...just stuff. Watch the news." He stops and wipes one hand over his eyes. "After he was shot...when he was back on his feet, he still said that. Would still do that. Stand there until he couldn't anymore, then he'd pull a chair over. Wash the dishes...or dry them while I washed. My mom...she tried to stop him, cause you know, he couldn't stand up for very long and it hurt. That was the ...it was the first fight I remember them having. Over dishes. Because Dad told her, yelled at her, that he wasn't useless. Then he broke them. The dishes. Not all of them, but some. Told her to get paper plates because if nothing else, he could throw them away." 

I have no idea what to say. I'm not even sure what Brian's trying to tell me, but I roll over, put my arms on the roof and rub shoulders with him. He doesn't say anything for a long minute, and I reach out, let my hand rub the back of his neck, in between his shoulder blades. The muscles of his back are like granite. "So did she let him do them after that?" 

He nods. "Yeah...for a while. I mean, he wasn't drinking then. Just the meds. It was...months later when he did start drinking. And he stopped doing them, stopped offering, stopped coming to the table to eat mostly. Mom would fix him a plate and put it on a TV tray or take it to their room. She and I would eat in the kitchen. And I would wash the dishes. Then one day...I...took my dinner in the den and ate with him. I didn't...I should've told her to bring her dinner too, but I didn't. When I took our plates back, she was doing the dishes. I didn't do them again until after she left. I did a lot of the cooking then...I mean," he looks at me finally, and gives me a half smile. "You've seen me cook. I haven't improved much since then." He shakes his head, and I run my hand up into his hair and he stretches into it. "We ate a lot of take out, a lot of frozen meals...but I always...I put them on plates. Just so I'd have dishes to wash," he says. 

He still does. He brings home take-out about half the time, but we never eat out of the packages. I'm not exactly sure why Brian is telling me this story. Is this when he chose -- picked between his parents? Brian's too smart to think that anything he did really was the final straw that broke them apart. At twelve or thirteen he might have thought that, but I'd have a hard time believing he still thinks it. 

Listening to him, watching him, it's like he can see it, one of those moments that stays with you forever -- I've got a few of my own. This is more than I knew before. It tells me a lot -- about who his dad was, about how they were as a family before it all went to shit. 

He folds his arms up on the roof and rests his head on them, looks at me. "The guy up there. He's not my dad, Dom. He hasn't been for a really long time. He's just a guy who looks like him. Letting him go...letting him die. It's just finishing something that really happened a lot of years ago. And he knows it," Brian says quietly. "After my mom left...he told me to go, too. Over and over. I was so pissed off at him, I stayed. And because I was so pissed off at him, I wanted him to be pissed off right back." 

"You boosted cars," I say, and really, it's no stretch, not even intuition. Brian got arrested just a few months after his mother left, just after his sixteenth birthday, he told me. 

"Yeah. I boosted cars. I actually boosted a lot before we got caught. But you know what? It didn't work. He didn't get mad, not about that. He was mad because it was one of his old cop friends that had to come and tell him because I wouldn't call him. Wasn't like the guys at the station didn't know who I was. It was them -- his old partner and the captain down at the station -- that talked to the judge, talked to the social worker. They called my mom. I'd have probably gotten off...they'd have let me go live with Mom, except I, brilliant kid that I was, opened my mouth and told them if they let me go, I'd do it again. And I would have." 

"What were you trying to prove?" 

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "I was being a smartass. I didn't know...really had no idea what it would be like," he says softly. "I hadn't been there a month before I was willing to apologize, promise to be good, anything to get out of there. But I had to do at least six months and then..." His eyes close, tight. "Fight or die, man. By then I was pissed off and angry and scared and kept fucking up any early out because I was fighting. Sometimes I started them. Sometimes I finished them. Sometimes..." 

He doesn't finish it. Sometimes you lose. Juvie, Lompoc, Chino. Unless you need no sleep and heal really quick, you always lose some. Always. 

"So, I buckled down, killed myself to graduate... worked for the administrators...reported shit. A lot of guys really hated my guts by the time I left, and I didn't care. I actually got out a couple of months early for behaving myself." 

Once, maybe, I'd have thought badly about him for that -- about anyone who narced out to the hacks. Juvie is different but only because the population is a lot younger. The attitudes and personalities that end up there, not so different from older guys -- guys who should be smarter -- doing hard time. I was a hard-ass in Lompoc. That's the way it was played. I was a hard-ass in Chino too, but different. I was smarter. 

Brian was what? Just shy of eighteen? 

"Your mom says she...she was there, when you got out," I say, watching him. His eyes narrow and his lips get tight, but it passes and he relaxes again. A little. 

"She was. She brought me new clothes. Picked me up and took me to lunch...asked me what I wanted to do. I asked her to take me to the beach." 

The beach is a good haul from Barstow. "Did she?" 

"Yeah. She did. We talked some. She said I could come back to LA with her." 

"You turned her down." 

"I did. She moved to Boston, with her sister, about a month later." 

"And you went back home." 

He nods and finally pushes back, standing upright and stretching again, shoves his hands back in his pockets and shrugs. "It didn't seem to matter anymore. What he thought, what he said...I still had my friends. Aside from being a pain in the ass, aside from him getting drunk every other day...I didn't care anymore. Not really -- not like...before. I mean, he'd done okay while I was in...didn't seem to care if I was there or not. I took him to the doctor when he needed to go. Told him he could hire somebody to clean house or live in shit. He told me to get a job and pay rent, so I did. And I went to school. It took us a few months to get it sorted out but we did. A year or so later, when I turned out not to be a total flake, I started paying the bills with his money, handled stuff that he was having trouble with. He could still be a total asshole, but...it's been pretty much like that ever since." 

A father and son who are more like strangers than friends. The pictures in the living room showed how big a break that was -- for Brian at least. Who knew what Earl thought. 

He looks calmer, looks tired. "That's what you need to know, Dom. If he dies, when he dies...all I can think is...it'll be over. For him, for me...I'm not going to miss him. I know that sounds cold, man." Brian looks uncomfortable and worried, but not about himself; this is for me. Maybe afraid he's treading on sacred ground. 

I know him better than that. I think maybe I know him better than he knows himself right now, but it's hard to say. I think he's wrong about missing his dad. Brian's been missing him for a good ten years or more...grieving for him long before now. The man who wouldn't let his wife wash dishes, the man who looked at his son like there had never been a better kid, the one who wore a uniform like he was made for it and who really did, no matter how delayed, give his life to protect people and his community. 

I'd have liked to know that man, and in a way I guess I kind of do, through Brian. But there's a big difference between missing somebody and burying someone you love, even years after the fact. 

"Doesn't matter how it sounds," I tell him. "So your dad's not my dad and your family is not my family. Except, you _are_ my family, Bri. Remember that. I don't mind _reminding_ you occasionally, but...don't make forgetting a habit, okay?" 

He closes his eyes and drops his chin, but he's smiling. "Deal," he says, looking at me. "I'll remember. I just didn't want this to be harder for you than it is for me," he says and I want to smack him. 

"Then don't make it harder for me," I tell him, and then lock an arm around his neck, drag him closer. He hugs me back, hard; the sigh against my neck is both his promise and his apology. "I'm ready to crash for a few," I tell him when I let him go. 

"I should probably stay -- Mom--" 

"Brian, your mother is fine. She said she'd call, right?" I'm still not clear on how this thing between Pamela and Brian works, but I'll get there -- when I'm not so tired I can't think. "She wants to help let her this time," I tell him, and he looks startled. I file that reaction away. "She's got friends in town. If you want we can bring the car back so she'll have wheels." 

Surprisingly enough he agrees, and we do bring the car back, drop the keys off with her. She seems surprised and Brian's still cool toward her, but I get a smile. Yeah, I think maybe the situation between Brian and his mom is at least as complicated as between Brian and his dad. 

That would be me, Dominic Toretto -- rocket scientist. Shit. 

* * *

Brian crashes hard. I mean really hard, like I haven't seen in awhile. I don't even think he's eaten anything yet, and it's late morning by the time we get the cars swapped out. He takes off his shoes, drops on the bed and he's out. Gone. I'd worry more about it but I'm not far behind him. 

Hours later I wake up. I managed about six hours, and Brian is still snoring softly next to me. The room is warm. Half Brian's hair is sticking up and the other half is limp against his skull. But he's relaxed, and the dark circles under his eyes are gone. 

I hear noise, voices, kept quiet even with the door closed. I get up carefully, but even so, I'm surprised Brian doesn't wake up. 

Chances are I can get a shower now, but when I leave the bedroom, I can hear them better -- women's voices. I follow them instead, and find Pamela in the kitchen with Renee. They've got food out, looks like they're fixing something. Pamela has changed out of her dress into jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. 

They hear me come in and stop whatever they were doing. "We didn't mean to wake you," Pamela says. 

I shrug. "You didn't. Any change?" 

She shakes her head. "No. Stable for now. I'd have called," she says, and that sounds a bit accusing but I ignore it. "You hungry?" 

"Yeah, what you got there?" 

When we got here yesterday -- last night -- the refrigerator was pretty full. Looks like it's more full now. Renee probably. She brought sandwich stuff. Hell, she looks like she brought the whole deli. 

I could make it myself, but Pamela tells me to sit, gets me something to drink and makes me a ham sandwich that I have to smoosh down just to take a bite out of. Conversation pretty much revolves around if I want mayo or mustard or both. Onion? Sure, lay it on me. 

She eats, too, makes sure Renee and I have at least met. Renee looks way more uncomfortable than Pamela does, and it takes a few minutes to realize it's me. Or, really, Brian and me. 

She's still polite, just not as chatty. She eats with us and they play a little catch up, talking about people I don't know. Pamela tries to include me -- really, she does. I give it a try, ask a couple of questions that I hope don't bring up awkward memories, but there's really not any topic at all that's safe, because everything I know about winds back to something that's gonna be weird. Even cars, which, let's face it, the women in my family know more than most guys about cars, but these two -- probably the only thing they know is which garage in town isn't going to rip them off and which service station has the cleanest bathrooms. 

Renee leaves after she eats, gives Pamela hug and a kiss and promises to call, to come back. Even if she's weirded out by me and Brian, I get the feeling she will be back. She and Pamela seem pretty tight. 

Pamela walks outside with her, and I start cleaning up. Not that there's much; we're using paper plates, which gets me after that little heart-to-heart with Brian earlier. But I wash the knives and glasses, put the food away. 

"I'd have done that, Dominic," Pamela says, and reaches for the towel I'm wiping the counter with. I don't let her have it. 

"The cook doesn't clean." It's a cheap shot. I know it and she recognizes it. Gives me a look that might almost be pissed off, or maybe she's trying not to laugh in my face. She leans back against the counter and crosses her arms over her chest. 

"Does Brian cook?" she asks. 

Ooh, okay. I guess she deserves her shot at asking questions. 

"He's getting better," I tell her. "He knows how to boil water on the stove instead of in the microwave." 

She grins, ducks her head. "Okay. I taught him that, you know. How to boil water." 

"You taught him how to drive," I say. It's out of my mouth before I even think about it, and Pamela nods, like it's nothing big. 

I didn't even think of it before now. She's talking, but for a second I really don't hear her. Christ, I obviously needed sleep and food more than I realized. 

"--spend hours in the garage with Earl. But Earl didn't really know that much," Pamela is saying, and I've missed the entire first part of it. I rinse out the rag I'm using, just to give myself a second to get my shit together. 

"Brian told me there was a mechanic, an old guy with a garage he used to hang out with," I say, and Pamela doesn't seem to notice I slipped a gear there for a minute. 

"Mr. Guyerson," she says. "Brian was about ten, I guess, or maybe a little younger. Earl could change the oil, a few other things, but Mr. Guyerson..." she gives a short laugh. "Earl took him there because he was past knowing how engines really worked. Mr. Guyerson kept his shop open more out of habit, I think, than because he needed the money. Brian would stop there after school most days just to see if he was doing anything interesting. He loved cars. Maybe loved them even more after Earl was shot. They probably made more sense to him than anything." 

"He still loves them," I say, folding up the rag and glancing at her. I lean against the counter as well, wrapping my hands around the sink edge. "He said," and I can't fight off the smile. Only Brian could make a five car pile-up funny. "He said he wrecked the first time out." 

Pamela covers her mouth with her hand and leans forward. She's laughing. "We were first in line so he could get his learner's permit, but we'd already been practicing before then. He passed. We got out on the highway -- and -- oh. He thought I'd be furious or his dad would be and I was just -- glad we weren't hurt but at the same time...it _was_ funny. We didn't tell Earl. He wasn't driving much, rarely went out. I got the car fixed before he saw the damage." She wipes at her eyes and shakes her head. "I'm not sure how good a teacher I was -- Brian always wanted to go faster, but -- I had that freedom. I wanted him to have it too. He told you that? God, he was so embarrassed." 

I nod. "I don't think he's embarrassed anymore," I say. 

Pamela smiles, then turns away, cleaning up things that don't need to be cleaned. "I was going to cook some dinner later, if you think you'll be here to eat. After I go back to the hospital for awhile." 

"I'll ask him." 

"Don't wake him," she says quickly, and looks at me. Yeah, her eyes look a little red. 

"I'll just check on him. Maybe grab a shower." 

She nods and I leave her to do whatever it is she needs to do. Cry. Cook. Go for a drive. 

Brian's still out, but he's moved. My guess is he'll be up before long. I grab a towel and clothes and head for the bathroom. 

While the water pounds down on me, I've got time to think. This thing with Pamela, I don't think it's what I thought it was. I'm not sure Brian's even clear on it any more. 

There's this thing my old parish priest told me, after my mother died. I was pissed and God seemed like the one I really wanted to punch. I didn't want to believe in God, and for a while I didn't, except to hate him. But my Dad kept taking us to church. So I told the priest that I hated God. He didn't seem surprised or angry, but he told me what to do when you lose faith: you keep acting like you have it and eventually it comes back. Fake it 'til you make it, basically. I didn't want to fake it then, but later, after my dad was killed, while I was in prison -- there were times when I wanted to believe something, anything, and Father Atterton's words came back. 

He was pretty much right. 

I think Brian's doing something like that. Hating his mother, hating his father, or maybe it's not quite hate, but he's convinced himself that they don't mean anything to him. Strangers, Pamela said. That's how he treats them. And he's done such a good job of faking it, that Pamela, at least, believes him. 

I do, too. Did. But she taught him to drive, maybe the one thing that Brian loves as much as me. 

And yesterday -- last night -- we cleaned Earl's room, or Brian did. We could have tossed the sheets maybe, told her not to go in. Called somebody. I don't know. But he cleaned it so Pamela wouldn't have deal with it. 

Pushed her out of the house because she couldn't deal with it. Was ready to push me out too, so I wouldn't have to deal with it. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes 

I catch a movement and see him coming into the bathroom, heading for the toilet. "You flush that and I'll kick your ass," I tell him. 

"Chicken," he calls back, and I grin. He doesn't flush but he does pull the shower curtain back when he's done, sticks a hand in to test the water. Looks at me like I'm the lunch he missed. He looks better, and from the look in his eye and the grin on his face, he feels better too. 

"You comin' in?" I ask him, and that grin gets wider. Then he's stripping off his shirt and pushing off his jeans. "Might want to lock the door," I remind him, and it doesn't even faze him. 

He comes in under the shower head and I have to back up. He groans as the hot water hits him, and I absolutely know how he feels. He doesn't hog it for long, though, just turns around and holds his hand out for the washcloth. 

I'm actually pretty clean but I don't turn him down. Having someone wash your back has to be close to heaven. 

And for a few minutes, right here, right now, there's nothing besides this shower stall, soap, and us. He either had great dreams or enough rest to feel frisky. I really don't care which, because by the time it's my turn to soap him up, both of us are hard, and Brian seems to be trying to figure out what I had for lunch by taste alone. We don't go for anything fancy, but Brian's got his hand around both our dicks, I've got my hand around his, and our tongues are doing all the fucking our dicks are missing out on. We get close and we need more support, and I end up with my back to the tiles. I'm good with it because it leave my hands free. Brian's still working us both but he's got his other hand on the wall to hold him up. I let him drive and massage his ass, rocking him against me. 

His head rests on my shoulder, watching his hand work us, and I find his hole, slide a couple of fingers in just to watch him tense, to feel him jerk against me. Hard to keep up any kind of rhythm, though, because that tight feeling in my belly and dick are demanding my attention. I'd like to turn him around and fuck him, but that would mean stopping and I _don't_ want to stop. Don't want him to stop. 

Then it really is my job to hold us both up, spreading my legs, using my shoulders, because he's offering the same service, stroking me inside and out. I bury my face in his neck, let my teeth rake over the tendon of his shoulder, hear his breath break up and stutter. I have no idea which of us just moaned. 

Maybe he doesn't want to completely freak Pamela out, because he covers my mouth with his just as I get ready to cut loose. The sound is muffled, the water masks the sound of flesh slapping flesh. I'm really glad we're in the corner of the shower because standing up is no longer a priority. 

I come like I've been waiting days for it, and Brian's doing the same, both of us shaking through it, barely able to keep from ending up on our asses. 

The water pretty quickly washes away the come and the smell of it, and Brian grabs the wall again, but he's still leaning on me. 

"We're gonna run out of hot water," I warn him a couple of minutes later, and he nods, pulls back reluctantly. 

We don't, but it's close, the water just starting to cool when I kiss him once more before easing out, drying off while he washes his hair. I already have my pants on when he finishes and turns the water off. 

"Your mom says she'd fix dinner if we're going to be here." 

"You up for that?" 

I almost point out to him that I'm not the one with a problem with his mother. Instead I catch his wrist, the right one, and hold it up. "Did you lose it?" 

He doesn't pretend not to know what I'm talking about, staring at where my thumb is stroking over his wrist. "I took it off." 

"Why?" I ask him. Need to know, Bri. Anyone else and I'd tell him what I think. I might even do it with Brian at some point, but honestly, I'm not sure if he knows any more why he's doing this shit, acting this way. 

"She gave it to me," he says after a second. 

"And you don't want her to know you still have it. Brian..." God. He looks like I might hit him, or like I might have something to say that he's got to brace himself for. I let go of his wrist and put my hands on either side of his neck. "Brian, what are you doing?" 

"I have no idea," he says after a second, and really, he looks confused and bewildered and off balance like I'm not used to seeing. Like I'm not prepared for. It surprises me. Brian _always_ knows what he's doing. Even when he's wrong, even when he's faking it, he still acts like he knows exactly what he's doing. "I don't have anything to say to her, Dom." 

"You pushed her away," I tell him, not sure how that will sit. 

He nods, then pulls back, grabs a towel and wraps around his hips. "She let me," he says. He doesn't even sound mad. Not angry with her. It's just what happened. Brian grabs up his clothes and heads out, going back into the bedroom. 

I'd bang my head on the wall if I thought it would help, try to tell myself it's really none of my business, but it is. Brian's my business, and if he can step up to the plate to tell me when I'm being an ass, the _least_ I owe him is to return the favor. Problem is, I'm not sure Pamela's any better and God only knows how she'd feel about me jumping in the middle of _her_ shit, but those two need some serious family intervention. 

I wonder if Pamela drinks. 

* * *

We take both cars to go back to the hospital. Pamela insists, saying it's ridiculous for us to be playing chauffeur to her. Brian doesn't argue and I don't really protest either. The hospital's ten minutes away and it's not like those two would actually talk during the drive. 

So she goes, while I make sure Brian eats something. Or basically I ask him if he's hungry, and he realizes he is and makes himself a sandwich while I sit on the counter. He seems a little more relaxed, either because Pamela's gone or from our shower. Either works. 

He stays that way on the drive over. Maybe because he doesn't have to pretend anymore with me. 

"You gonna show me your hometown while we're here?" I ask him. 

He grins at me. "There's not a whole lot to see, Dom. My high school, the police station, the main drag. Mojave Road. Lots of desert." 

"Route 66," I say and he chuckles. 

"Okay, good point. But really, man, not too many people vacation in Barstow." But when we hit the traffic light, he turns away from the hospital. 

He's right, there's not a lot to see. Yeah, there's the old train station, his high school that looks like half the schools in California: adobe and steel, could probably use some work inside and out. There's the usual fast-food joints and restaurants. Bartow isn't quite Mayberry, but it's not LA, either. You'd have to work to get lost here. 

There's also miles of open road and flat desert. Wide open spaces with nothing but sand and mountains, halfway between LA and Vegas, which is probably why Barstow gets any tourists at all. It feels like a big gas station. 

It's hard for me to see myself living here, growing up here. I figure kids that do either stay forever or leave as soon as they can. 

Brian doesn't say anything other than to point out places. He's a lousy tour guide. 

"You still got friends here?" I ask him as we head back. 

"A couple, I guess. Most of them, they've moved on." 

"Anybody you want to see?" 

Brian shrugs. "See how they're doing, maybe. I haven't lived here for a lot of years, Dom." 

Fair enough. I drop it, not sure what I'm going for anyway. Well, I know... it's still hard for me to get how Brian went from being the angry kid to the guy who tripped me up. Maybe it doesn't matter, and maybe it's as simple as Brian seeing where he was heading and not liking it, changing course, changing his mind, changing himself. That's a tough one for me to get at all. I feel like I've been heading down the same road for a lot of years. I knew what I was doing, but it never occurred to me that it could be different or that I wanted it to be. Not even after I got out of prison. Or maybe I just ignored it. Even doing runs for the Trans, hijacking the trucks -- whatever reasons I had for justifying it then, there wasn't much hesitation. Nobody's pure where I grew up; everyone has a deal, an angle, a shortcut to what they want. 

Maybe that's the difference. How I grew up, what's right and what's legal don't always synch up perfectly. But Brian probably grew up thinking that what's legal is right. He didn't do time because he didn't know right from wrong, or because he was so poor he had no choice. It's like the Valley kids you hear about, getting pulled over for drugs or doing stupid stuff for thrills. Maybe they want a little of Daddy's attention, more than they want his money, but that kind of money gives advantages that people in my neighborhood never get. 

Brian could have gotten off. He had people who would speak for him, had other options, but he was too angry to take advantage of it. 

I swore after Lompoc I'd never go back in, but I walked into Chino under my own power because other people -- Brian, my sister -- were more important to me. More important than me, maybe. 

This is not where I thought I'd be pushing thirty; not when I was fifteen, not when I was eighteen. I expected my whole life would be on the tracks. I wanted to see all of them, from Sarasota to Saskatchewan. It didn't even have to be racing. I'd have worked the crews, hauled equipment. I never wanted to be in the bleachers. I wanted to be down on the asphalt and concrete where it's hot and it stinks and you never get the smell of motor oil out of your skin. 

When we took Brian's partner Tony and his wife to the races, it was the first time in years I'd been to a legitimate track during a real race. We had a good time, but I felt like a stranger in my own skin up there. Watching it, not being able to be part of it. Street racing's got an edge, and it's a rush without a doubt, but there's something about semi-pro or pro competition that's like a fever in your blood. On the streets there are no rules. I like that, love it...but it's more real, more of a test when you're working under rules that put everybody on the same level. For most kids running the streets, it's a hobby, it's a place to go, but there's only a few who use it for something beyond their own ego. 

Hector's one of them. He's got the fever, ready to compete, out there not just to impress but to win, to prove something. Maybe only to himself. 

I glance over at Brian. Can't help but wonder what he's trying to prove, wonder if he even knows. Or what he was trying to prove years ago. 

And somewhere in all this, Earl's got a story, too, but I'm not sure that Brian or Pamela will ever know it. Maybe they'll never be able to put Earl entirely to rest. 

Brian's cell phone rings, and I grab it up. Local number. "Yeah?" 

"Brian?" 

Pamela. "No. Dom." 

"Are you on your way?" She sounds calm, but she didn't ask to speak to Brian. Shit. 

"Yeah, maybe five minutes," I say, and Brian's looking at me. 

"Good." She sounds relieved. 

"Pamela--" 

It's in my voice, and Brian stares back at the road, picks up a little speed. 

"Earl...he's had another stroke, they think. He's still with us." 

But not for much longer. "We'll be there in a few," I tell her. 

"Is he dead?" Brian asks me. 

"No. Looks like he had another stroke." 

Brian doesn't say anything, not the last few miles and not when he parks. He doesn't rush anything, like maybe if he takes his time it will all be over before he gets upstairs. 

Pamela's in the waiting room, and she's pretty much got it together but it's obvious she's been crying. There's a couple of guys with her. One is an older guy in a cop uniform, with fair hair that's thinning and going gray. The other guy looks like a cop, too, but he's in slacks and a white shirt, could use some time at the gym. 

Brian only hesitates a second before closing the distance between himself and the uniform. "Ed..." Not just a greeting but a hug, one that Ed hangs onto for a little longer than Brian seems comfortable with. Then he pulls back and offers his hand to the other guy. "Chief Sanderson." 

They shake, and I shouldn't be surprised. Earl was a cop, right? 

I almost miss the introduction. "Dom, this is Ed Lowe, my dad's old partner," he says. "And Chief of Police William Sanderson. Dominic Toretto." 

Pamela waits for us all to finish before lightly touching Brian's arm. "You should go see him." 

For a second I think Brian's gonna tell her no, but he sets his mouth and moves. 

"Ed and Will came by to help. With the arrangements," Pamela tells me, like I have every right to know. I might feel good about that, but this hits me wrong. Earl's not dead yet. I don't know him and what I do know I don't like, but this somehow feels wrong. These people who should be closest to Earl, they're just waiting for him to die. Brian included. 

"I'm sure they'll do right by him," I tell her, but my jaw feels like it will crack. 

"If they can get him stable, Mojave Valley is holding a bed for him," Ed says, and I stare at him. 

"It's a hospice," Pamela says. I'm suddenly feeling like a jerk. "I don't know if moving him is a good idea." 

Ed slips an arm around Pamela, gives her a kiss to her temple like I would to Mia. "Give it a couple of hours, see what the doctor says." 

Sanderson picks up his coat. "I'm going to let Ed tell us what you need, Pam. What Earl needs. I'll try to talk to Brian later." He gives her a brief hug, shakes my hand again, and leaves. 

It's not until after he leaves that I wonder if this is the guy who was willing to speak up for Brian when he was arrested. Probably so. 

Ed looks like he can offer Pamela whatever she needs better than me, so I go after Brian, as much to check on him as to just to put a check on my own feelings. Brian may know me better than I realize, because I have to tell myself again that Earl is not my father, that the situation with Earl has always been bad and this is making it worse. It's bringing up stuff that Brian's been able to keep under wraps, maybe for Pamela too. 

Brian's sitting in the chair again, leaning back, eyes closed, but he opens them when I come in. 

I glance at Earl. I didn't think it was possible for him to look worse but he does. His skin is kind of grayish sallow, and he really seems to be having trouble breathing, but the sheets and blankets are tucked tight around him like the nurses were just in here to change the bed. I glance up at the IV bag -- saline and some other packet nearly empty. Something for pain? Something else? His lips look dry and cracked and there's a little cup of water beside the bed with a bag of sponges on a stick. 

"They still here?" he asks quietly. Like anything is going to disturb Earl. 

"Sanderson left. Ed's still with your mom." 

Brian nods, brings his hand up to chew on his thumbnail. 

I ease down on the end of the bed, near Earl's feet. He doesn't notice but Brian gets up. "You can sit here," he says. 

"I'm fine, Bri," I tell him, and I am. Foot rail's high enough to lean on. Brian doesn't sit again, though; he paces a little and ends up by the bed. His hand hovers over the mattress for a second, then lands on Earl's head, and just rests there for a moment, Brian's thumb stroking over dry skin and hair that could use a shampoo. 

"I feel like I should talk to him, you know?" Brian says softly. He's got his other hand in his pocket but he's not leaning over. "Like it shouldn't matter if he can hear me or if I know it. That maybe he can. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Tell somebody it's okay, that they can go, it'll all be fine." 

"I don't know, man. It's what they do in the movies, right?" 

Brian smiles briefly and looks at me. "I'm really glad you're here," he says, but doesn't hold eye contact for long. Probably good because I'm not sure I could stand it. 

I half think that it might be a good idea if Brian would talk. I know it would make me feel better, because as much as I sometimes wish Brian didn't talk so much, I miss it now because it's weird when he's quiet. "Ed was your dad's partner?" 

Brian nods. "Yeah. Up until he was shot. He was with him...that day. Stayed with him. Lost the perps." 

"What happened?" 

Brian looks at me again, like he's surprised I don't know, like he's just realized that I know next to nothing about any of this. "Liquor store robbery. Couple of guys, kids Ed thought, but he couldn't be sure. They answered a silent alarm, perps panicked, just started shooting. Blew out the windows, took out a couple of displays. Ed said the whole place smelled like a distillery. There was bourbon in the streets." Brian lifts his hand away from his Dad's head and drops back into the chair. "Ed went around back...they were waiting for back up." 

"They catch them?" 

Brian shakes his head and leans forward, dropping his hands between his knees. "No. Never did. Didn't even have a good enough description, really, to put out an APB that was worth shit. Ski masks." 

"Ed still checks on him." 

Brian shrugs, nods. "He came by a lot after Dad got home but...Dad wasn't exactly kind to visitors. Especially Ed." 

Or his family. "Keeps in touch with your mom?" 

"I don't know. He still stops by a couple of times a month. Sometimes Dad seems okay with it. Other times he ignores him. Give the man points for trying," he says. 

Give the man a fucking medal, I think. For fifteen years? 

"It was the guys on the force that came and...helped with the house," Brian says. "Put up bars and stuff. Used to be a ramp on the front steps, in the back. Fixed things when they broke." 

Like the refrigerator, or plumbing, roofing, and God knew what else. Sometimes I feel like I've replaced half my house. Downside to owning one. 

Movement catches my eye and both of us look up to see Pamela. Brian gets up and so do I, but she puts both hands up, telling us to stay. "I just...if you want him to go to the hospice, Ed will handle it," she tells Brian. 

"I don't think it matters," Brian says. 

Pamela hesitates but then takes a deep breath. "He didn't want to die in a hospital, Brian. His father --" 

"Died twenty years ago and it's not like he knows where he is," Brian says flatly. He keeps his voice low, but I'm watching him, watching his shoulders hunch, his face tighten up. 

"But we do," she says evenly. 

"Just...leave it," he says finally. "You want to be here, fine. Whatever you need to do. Make your peace, say goodbye...but there's nothing you can do for him now," Brian says and comes close to her, looking down. "There never was." 

He'd have done better to just slap her. Pamela backs up, looks like she's gonna run, but it's Brian who does, in a way. Gives me a look and then walks out. 

I don't follow him and Pamela stands there with her mouth open, too shocked to even cry. After a second she moves, takes the chair Brian left. "You...you should probably go after him." 

I don't think so. "He needs to be alone. He won't do anything stupid," I tell her. 

She tries a dry chuckle, fiddles with her keys. The rental tag is there, but there's more, probably the keys to her home in Boston, her car. I'm not even really expecting it, but I'm not surprised when I see a braided bit of twine and a bead. It's a lot more worn than Brian's, not enough left to make a bracelet. 

She looks down at her hands, the keys. She's still got her wedding ring on, but no engagement ring. Plain gold band. I look at Earl and his is still on, too. Looks loose, but his knuckles are pretty knotty. Probably won't fall off. Probably won't get stolen, either, not here. 

"I don't know if I should go or stay," she says, looking at me like I've got the answer. 

"Your call," I tell her, but I really want to tell her to stay. It might not be the right answer, but it's the best one I've got. 

"I could stay with Renee," she says. "She offered. Let you and Brian stay at the house. I didn't come here to make this harder for him." 

She's apologizing to me. I rub at my face, wishing hospitals came with bars or at least beer. 

"Is he happy?" she asks me. Fuck. I'm really not prepared for this. 

"Yeah. For the most part. Like most people," I say. "What about you?" 

She smiles and nods. "For the most part. I've got a lot of family there...but...I could do without the winters. I loved it here." 

She gets up and goes to the bed, drops her purse on the blanket. Does the same kind of stroking over Earl's head that Brian did, only Pamela kisses him, too. I don't think it's for show. 

"I think...I'm going to see if I can get a flight out tomorrow. I'll, um, get my stuff, stay with Renee tonight." 

"You sure about that?" I come closer to the bed, pick up her keys. I feel like an idiot and I don't think Brian is going to be happy that I'm trying to make peace here. I hold up the braid. It's grungy, tied tight around the ring. 

"You know, Brian's got one just like this," I tell her. 

She blinks, takes it from me. "Still?" 

"He took it off before you got here, but that's the first time he ever has that I know of. I fixed it a few months back." When Brian was thinner and it wouldn't stay on. He wouldn't let me cut it. 

She doesn't get it. "We got them after he got out of the juvenile detention center. He wanted to go to the beach, so I drove him to Laguna, and some guy was selling them on the street. They were two for a dollar or something. Dom..." her hand tightens around the keys. "You think he wants me here?" 

"I think he hasn't changed much in twelve years. Grown up, yeah. But I think he wants you to leave now for the same reason he did then." 

She looks confused, but she's listening. Pamela's not stupid, but she's spent a lot of time trying to deal with the choices she made and why she made them. "Brian..." I know this is true. I've known it from the start. Maybe because I don't have the history is why I can see it better than Pamela can, than Brian can. "Brian protects what he loves no matter what it costs him," I tell her, and I watch it sink in. If I'm wrong -- and I don't think I am -- this won't make anything worse. It might not make it better, either. She let him push her away once; if she does it a second time...well, maybe he's better off without her. "I'm gonna go find him," I tell her. 

When I leave she's still looking at her keys. 

* * *

I don't see Brian when I come out -- not in the hall or the waiting room. I check at the desk but the nurse there didn't see him either. The hospital's not that big but if he's off the floor, I've got no idea where he'd go. 

Chances are he's either in the cafeteria or he went outside, but I don't think he'll be gone long. 

There's a window at the far side of the half-hall that makes up the waiting room. Not much of a place to wait, even with a small TV that's set to some news program and the magazines that I swear hospitals order in bulk. Maybe they get a great price for only buying out-of-date ones, or they're donated. I don't know. I haven't spent enough time in hospitals to know and I really don't think I ever want to. 

There's not much of a view; even the mountains look kind of tired and dusty, too far away, and out here, they don't promise anything. The hospital's practically the tallest building around, but the glass is tinted so even the sky looks washed out -- everything looks the same. 

It's maybe five minutes later when the elevator pings and Brian's there, carrying a tray of coffee. He looks at me for a long minute. He's being a dick and he knows it, he just doesn't know what to do about it. And short of kicking his ass I don't either. He doesn't say anything, just sets down the tray with two of the cups. Tilts his head toward them. One of them's for me. 

He grabs the third and heads into his father's room. I swear I'm holding my breath, wondering if maybe they'll talk, he'll apologize or Pamela will. At this point I'm praying Earl will sit up and tell them to both stop being so stupid before he dies. 

I can't hear them. If I concentrate really hard I can hear the beep of the monitors, the hiss and click of a ventilator in another room. Footsteps on the tile, but muffled, soft. Nurses in their walking shoes. 

I can see a vague reflection of Brian when he comes out, and really he's not in there long enough for much to have happened. Pamela doesn't follow him. He stares at my back for a long minute and I don't turn around. I'm not really pissed off, not enough to get in his face and start a scene. He finally sits down, picks up his cup, and drinks, leaning back. 

I turn around then, watch him for a minute before going over to get my own cup, take a sip. 

"Go ahead," he says quietly, and I raise an eyebrow at him. "Say what you want to." 

I'd smile if he wasn't so serious. "What do you think I should say?" I ask him. 

"That I'm being a jerk." 

"Well, yeah. Not the word I'd use, but close enough." I kick the bottom of his shoes and get a sour look, but he's thinking , thinking hard. "You should apologize to your mother." 

"I did." 

Really? "For being a dick? Or for..." 

"I told her she had every right to be here," Brian says after a minute. Okay, so not exactly ‘I'm sorry for being a dick', but progress. I move the tray and sit down next to him. I'm not even surprised he puts it like that. Fair-minded, that's my Bri. 

"You know, if you want her to go, you should tell her that," I say. 

"I just told her she could stay." 

"No, you didn't." 

He looks at me. I'm not usually good at the subtle stuff. Maybe I should be scared that he's rubbing off on me. 

He gets that stubborn look on his face and I shake my head. "If you say you don't care, you're gonna be wearing that coffee. Nothing you don't care about fucks you up this bad." 

He glares at me, sits forward, and sets his cup on the floor. I can't help but grin at him. "What are you, five?" I ask. "Where is it?" I ask him. 

"What?" He sounds -- and looks -- sullen. Cute kid, my ass. I bet he was a brat. 

"The bracelet," I say. Now he looks annoyed and surprised. 

"It's in my wallet," he says. Figures. 

I hold out my hand, curl my fingers a couple of times. "Let me have it." 

"Dom--" 

I set my cup down, too. "Brian, I swear to God -- I am not gonna watch you tear yourself apart over what you could have done. Give me the fucking bracelet." I don't even raise my voice, just lean into him. 

He gets his wallet out, opens it to pull the bracelet out from where it's tucked in with the cash. I take it and shift so I can get to his arm. He doesn't pull back, relaxes just a fraction and lets me tie it back in place, snug against his skin. I know the feel of that damn thing in the dark. 

"She's still got hers, too," I say when I'm done, and let him go. 

"I know. I saw it on her key ring," he says, fingering it. 

No surprise there. Brian's a lot more observant than I am most of the time -- part of being a cop. 

I rub a hand over my skull. "You're being a dick," I tell him, quietly. He doesn't disagree. "Brian...he can't hurt her anymore. But you sure as hell can. Is that what you want?" 

"No." He says it fast, maybe too fast. 

"Then what are you doing?" Honestly, I don't know who Brian's trying to protect more, Pamela or himself. "You didn't keep that so you could forget her." 

"I kept it to remind myself not to do anything stupid enough to land me in jail again," he says tightly. 

"Oh, well, it worked real well then, didn't it?" I tell him. Brian's lucky he didn't end up in jail after nearly tossing his career for me. "What, you embarrassed to tell your mother you love her?" Maybe. He doesn't say it to me very often. 'Course, I don't say it either. I can say it to Mia, used to say it to Letty. My father...even Vince. 

Harder to say it to Brian, though, and I suddenly realize this is why. I wonder if his parents used to say it a lot before all this. I'm tempted to ask him when I hear that sound. That long uninterrupted wail of an alarm. Brian hears it, too, is on his feet. There's nurses moving and I catch a glimpse of Pamela, pressed back to the curtains, letting the nurses get to Earl. Brian goes past her, takes a second to squeeze her shoulder. 

I don't try to get into the room, but I do end up by Pamela and she presses back against me, as much to get out of the way as anything. 

Isn't this supposed to happen in the middle of the night? Shouldn't there be more time? 

There's a nurse on the phone, another taking Earl's pulse. Brian's at the head of the bed, out of the way, both hands on the pillow on either side of Earl's head, bent low. If he's saying anything, I can't hear it between the nurses and the alarm whine that's getting on my nerves. 

Pamela almost gets knocked back into me when the doctor comes in, but he tosses a "sorry"; we're almost wrapped in the curtain. And suddenly Pamela's got her hand wrapped around mine, tight, but she's not looking at me, she's looking at Brian, or Earl or both. 

The doctor says something to one of the nurses and she shuts the alarm off. I want it back because now I can hear Earl struggling to breathe. It sounds wet and raspy and I shut my eyes for a second, feeling dizzy and kind of sick. Jesse sounded like that, for just a few seconds, blood in his chest and lungs. It happened faster than this, though, because I swear Earl's still fighting with whatever is left of his brain or instinct. 

Pamela lets go of my hand and moves forward, goes to the foot of the bed. 

"Can you do anything?" Brian says to the doctor, and I want to look away from his face. 

"Not without prolonging it," the doctor says, and I'm ready to tell him to prolong it then, anything but listen to a man fight for every breath. "He's not aware--" 

"How can he not be aware of this?" Brian snaps out. "Can I rescind the order?" 

"Mr. O'Conner -- this is normal, it's his body --" 

"This is not normal. I don't want him in pain. Give him something." I'm not sure Brian knows what he's really asking, but the doctor does, and right or wrong, he's not crossing that line. Not with witnesses. 

"We can up his oxygen feed, give him a higher dose of morphine to calm him," the doctor says, and signals a nurse to get the drugs. She's gone in a flash. 

Brian stares at the doc, mouth tight and eyes wide. He looks trapped and angry and I can almost feel him starting to break apart, like all the sharp hurt edges that he's been hiding for years are suddenly showing. 

Brian's gonna lose it. 

"Dominic..." It takes a second for it to register, for me to realize Pamela's talking to me. She looks at me and then at Brian, who's still got his hands on his father's head, stroking his skin, like he can make this easier. 

I have to move a nurse out of my way and Pamela comes up on the opposite side of the bed, wraps her fingers around Brian's wrist. Closer to Earl it sounds worse, because it almost sounds like he's trying to say something. 

"Bri-" I say and don't give a shit about the nurses or the doctors as I get an arm around his waist. There's moisture on Earl's forehead and it's not sweat, it's not even Earl's. "Come on...let 'em do their stuff," I tell him, but I don't sound like myself. 

"No. No," Brian says and he calms down some. Not so much physically -- he's tense and rigid, but his voice calms down and he catches his mother's hand. I don't even think he knows it. 

I don't want to watch this, don't want to be here at all, wondering if it will be quick or if we're gonna stand in the cramped space for hours with the smells and the sounds. A nurse comes back and adds something to the IV. It doesn't look like much, hardly marks the syringe. It takes a couple of minutes to work and I'm counting, tapping out a beat on Brian's hip. 

Earl's breathing doesn't get any better, just slower, and they do something to the oxygen, open it up or something. I'd rather watch the nurses than Earl. Or Brian. 

I've seen Brian in pain, in real tear-your-gut open physical pain, the kind that makes you want to die, or just have someone hit you hard enough to knock you out. This isn't physical, but it looks the same, shows up in his face and his eyes exactly the same way. 

I'm half wishing I'd done what Brian said and left. It's almost harder to watch this than have it happen to you. When it's you...you forget, you get numb. When you're watching someone else, you remember. But if I were back in LA, waiting for a phone call, I know I'd need to be here. 

"How long?" Pamela sounds very calm. She's not hiding her tears at all. She came here for Brian, I think, but not entirely. She's talking to the doctor. 

"Minutes, hours...I can't be more specific. Not that long," he says quietly, like Earl can hear him. Maybe he can. If I were Earl, I'd want to hear that -- not so long now. Not much longer. I really hope the doctor's right that he isn't aware of this, of having to fight for every breath. 

The doctor eases out of the room and after a minute the nurses do, too. 

Brian's barely moved, although he's let go of Pamela's hand. He's letting his thumbs stroke over his father's face in time with his breathing, and he's breathing with Earl, like he can make it easier. I rub at his back and up along his neck for I don't know how long until Pamela covers his hand with hers again. 

Earl sounds like breathing isn't so hard anymore, or maybe I just wish that was so, but it seems shallower, like what they gave him has calmed down whatever instinct makes a man fight for air he knows he's not going to get. 

Pamela tugs on Brian's hand until he looks at her. "Brian...step outside for a minute, take a break," she says, like we've been here longer than I realize. 

"No. I can do this." 

"You don't have to," Pamela says and she catches his face. "You have done everything... _everything_ you needed to do. More than you should ever have had to do. And I've got some things I need to say to your father." 

"He can't hear you." He's not even really arguing with her, more like he's arguing with himself, convincing himself. 

"Maybe not. But I need to say them anyway. Do this for me." Her voice breaks on that and Brian flinches. 

"Give her a few minutes, Bri," I offer. A compromise. I give him a little tug and he shifts, moves, takes a step away, then pulls away from me completely, from Pamela, too. 

I know enough to follow him. 

He doesn't go far, just to the middle of the hallway, then looks like he doesn't know where he was going or what he was doing. He probably doesn't. I can hear Pamela, but not what she's saying. 

I get in front of him, wait for him to see me and not just look at me. "I didn't think I'd," and he stops, presses his fingers to his eyes, "...care." 

That's my cue, right? To tell him that he never stopped caring, he just found a way for it not to hurt so much. 

Brian's the smart one. Slow, sometimes, but smart. I grip his shoulder, give him a little pull, and that's all it takes. 

He smells like sweat and fear. Whatever the nurses have been putting on Earl's skin to help the dryness is on his hands. His breathing's not even, but then, neither is mine. 

Somebody held me like this after my father was killed. I think they held me back first, to keep me from going to him when the car was burning, but then somebody held me. I don't even remember who it was -- one of the crew, one of the race officials. A total stranger. I don't remember. 

He's got his back to the nurses' station, so he doesn't see Pamela come out or the nurse go in. Doesn't see Pamela look at me like she wishes we could trade places. I ease up a little and Brian feels it, turns around just as the doctor is coming back. 

It takes me a second to realize it's over. Pamela doesn't say anything, and all I can manage is a soft," I'm sorry" when I squeeze his neck again. 

There's no excitement now, no rush of people into the room, no alarms. Brian pulls away from me and goes to his mother, stands beside her and stares into the cubicle. Goes in. 

I stare out the window again. No idea how long, only that my head aches from the glare even with the tint. I hear them behind me, the doctor, Brian's lower voice saying thank you. The sound of the curtains being drawn. 

When I finally turn around, it's because Brian's wrapped his arms around Pamela. It doesn't matter if anything's resolved between them, because Brian would offer the same to a stranger. 

It's Pamela that pulls back, pulls him toward me. Easier, maybe, for me to hug her, tell her I'm sorry. 

"You say what you needed to?" I ask. 

She nods, wipes at her eyes, but she's really not crying anymore. "Most of it. The rest will wait. I'm going to...make a few phone calls. Ed, Renee. My sister," she says, pulling out her phone. She stops and reaches over to hug Brian again, kisses him. "You should go home." 

"There's stuff I have to sign, to move him, call the...funeral parlor." He's got a list, but it's a lot different when you're a cop dealing with a death than when it's your own father. 

"Do you think...Ed offered to help, and I think he'd like to if you -- will that be okay?" she asks. 

"Yeah...but I should..." Do something. Be doing something. 

"Why don't you let us call?" I ask her, and for a second I think she might refuse, but she can't do this for him, not this late. 

"You call Ed," she says and digs his number out of her purse. 

Brian takes it and pulls out his cell phone, then realizes he probably shouldn't use it here. "I should wait. In case there's papers to sign." 

"I'll wait." I say. Pamela looks grateful, but Brian, Brian's not so sure. "It'll be okay," I tell him. "You'll be downstairs, right? I need you, I'll come find you." 

He doesn't want to leave me here. I'm not too keen on it, either, but it's not my dad. "Go on," I tell him, and he nods, steps in close, close enough to press his hand to my chest. 

"I won't be long." 

There's really not much for me to do but wait while the nurses call the morgue. I don't go in. I don't need to watch them cover his body, disconnect things. The nurses really don't need me, but when the orderlies come to move Earl's body, I'm on my feet. 

I don't remember what prayers to say for the dead. You'd think I would, even if I haven't seen the inside of my parish for a few years. I remember some pieces, years of masses have left bits in my head. _May their souls and all the souls of the faithful departed rest in peace. Amen._ I remember the prayer to St. Joseph, but it's a little late for that, and we didn't have nine days. 

I don't know what Brian believes. He didn't call a minister or a priest. I'm not even sure Brian prays except over dinner, and I think he does that because I do. Even as they're wheeling Earl away, I'm murmuring a Hail Mary, just in case. Superstition more than faith, maybe. 

I head downstairs, hoping I don't cross them coming up. I don't. Brian's sitting in the lobby and Pamela's just outside the doors, still on the phone. 

"You okay?" I ask, sitting next to him. 

He nods. "How about you?" 

"I've had better days." 

That gets me a smile. He's not as tense, no surprise. Maybe still in shock. I mean, what is he supposed to feel? I'm not sure what _I_ should feel. Sad because a man who once was a good guy is dead too young? Maybe a little glad because someone who caused Brian so much pain can't keep doing it? 

"I want to get in the car and just drive," he says. 

Sounds good to me. "What are we doing?" 

"Going back to the house...Renee said she'd come over, set things out. Like we did for Maria. Call people," Brian says, and leans back, stretching out, and closing his eyes. 

He sits up when Pamela comes back in. "Renee is on her way, so we should head back." 

"You okay to drive?" Brian asks her. "We could leave my car." 

She smiles, starts to reach up and push Brian's hair off his forehead, but stops shy of it. "I'm fine," she says, and actually she looks okay. 

We both get up. "You need us to pick up anything?" I ask. I refuse to look at Brian. 

"Probably ice, maybe some pop," she says. 

"We can do that," I tell her as we're walking out. 

"I'll see you there, then," she says, and hesitates. 

Brian doesn't. He gives her a hug, and I do, too. "I'm sorry," I tell her again, and she squeezes a little harder. 

We walk her to her car and let her get in and drive off. 

"Ice," Brian says. 

"Pop?" 

"She's from Boston," Brian says as we walk toward his car. 

"I'm thinking...maybe thirty minutes before anybody worries," I say. 

Brian looks at me. "Can't get far." 

"Depends on how fast you go," I tell him. 

"You want to drive?" he asks. 

Like you would not believe. "I have no fucking idea where we are," I say. "Next time." 

By the time we hit the 40, the Mustang's engine is screaming, the landscape's a blur, and I'm wondering what Pamela would say if we got ice in Flagstaff. 

Brian's got more sense, or at least a bigger sense of responsibility, because he eventually pulls off and turns around. We don't say much, nothing at all in fact, but the tension is leeching out of both of us like the desert is sucking it away. 

At least until I see Brian's eyes flicker to the rearview and he swears, slows it down. I turn around. 

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the flashing lights crawling up fast behind us. 

"Shit," Brian says, and pulls off on the shoulder. We've done a lot of work on the Mustang the last few months and chances are he could leave the cop in the dust, but only if he plans on heading back to LA instead of Barstow. 

The cop pulls up, keeping some distance, and Brian's already reaching for the registration in the glove box. 

"Driver and passenger step out of the car, hands on the roof." 

He uses the speaker. I hate it when they do that shit. Brian goes first, holding his wallet and the registration, and I follow. There's only one cop, so I guess I can forgive him for being cautious. 

He approaches, still careful. I try to look innocent and harmless, but Brian tells me it's a tough look for me to pull off. 

"Driver, step to the back of the car...back up. Passenger, stay where you are, hands on the roof." 

I do it, but gingerly. The roof is sucking in heat like a toaster oven. 

The cop is older -- not like Brian's dad but -- older than us. 

"You know how fast you were going?" he says, then asks Brian to pass back his wallet and his registration. 

"Yeah. Yeah. I do. Sorry about that," Brian says, his hands still up and out. 

The cop is looking at his credentials. "LAPD. What, you guys don't get enough high-speed chases in LA?" he says, but he relaxes. 

"Have you seen the traffic in LA, man?" Brian says, charming and easy. It's not even an act. 

"O'Conner...wait. Earl O'Conner's kid?" 

Not so easy, and Brian nods. Doesn't say anything. 

The cop hesitates and glances at me. "Relax," he says, and I get my hands off the roof while Brian turns around. 

"I heard about your dad," the cop says. "Don't know him real well, I came on about...the time he went off," he says. "How's he doing?" 

"He..." Brian starts to say it and stops, just freezes. 

"He died about an hour ago," I say, coming toward the back of the car, hands out where the guy can see them. "We just..." 

"Went out for some ice," Brian finally manages. "Sorry about this...I know it was stupid." 

He doesn't want to play this. I think he'd rather get a ticket. Really. 

"I'm sorry," the cop says, looking just as awkward. He hands Brian back his wallet and registration. "Just...I'm going to give you a warning because I have to, but just...take it easy, okay?" he says. 

"I will. Promise,” Brian says. "We were heading back home anyway. Thanks...I'm really sorry." 

"Understandable," the cop says, and gets back in his own car. 

Brian pockets the warning and looks at me, but doesn't do or say anything until the cop pulls out around us. "You drive," Brian says finally, looking out over the desert. I have to pass him to get to the driver's side and I let my hand linger on his stomach for a second. 

He grabs my arm, holds me there, both of us standing at the back of the car. It's hot as hell and I can feel sweat on the back of my neck without moving air to cool it. There's not a lot of traffic and nobody's slowing down. I pull him a little closer. "It's gonna be okay, Bri," I tell him, right up under his ear, and he nods. Lets me go. I pat his stomach once and we both get in the car. 

"We still need to get ice," I remind him as I start the engine. 

He nods. "Near the house. We need to get beer, too. Lots of it," he says. 

It's an excellent idea. Best idea I've heard all day. 

* * *

We make the stop, grab a couple of bags of ice and two twelve-packs of beer, and a couple of bottles of soda. The only two cars in the driveway are Pamela's rental and Renee's car, and Brian looks relieved. I tuck the Mustang along the curb rather than in the driveway. "In case we have to go out again," I tell Brian, and he gets that sly grin on his face. 

"Good idea," he says, and snags the beer, leaving me to haul the bags of ice and soda up to the house. 

Pamela is on the phone in the kitchen; Renee is in the living room, giving it a once-over, but she stops when she sees us and comes up to Brian. He can't really hug her back with a case of beer in both hands but he kisses her cheek, thanks her for coming by. 

There's not room for the cases in the refrigerator, but I tuck a few bottles in here and there and snag two cold ones, catch Brian's eye and hitch my chin toward the patio. 

"You think there will be a lot of people?" I ask, handing him a bottle after he closes the glass door. 

Brian drinks like he's dying of thirst, and I know the feeling. He shakes his head after he swallows. "I don't know. Dad didn't exactly go out of his way to keep his friends, you know?" 

"What about your friends?" I ask. I asked him before, but I'm still curious. It's hard to imagine anyone as outgoing as Brian not having a lot of friends. The kind of friends that last, like Vince, or Letty, or even Leon. But we've been living together for months and aside from a couple of people he seems okay with at the precinct, Brian doesn't have people he hangs out with. A beer after a shift with some guys, a few people he knows at the bars closest to the house, maybe a few more people at the beach when he can drag me out there. But it's all friendly, not friends. 

"Not so much," he says. "Like I said, most of them have moved on." 

Most, but not all. "What? No ex -girlfriends hanging around, working at the E-Z Mart?" 

He grins and chuckles. "Nope. A couple of them are married now. Probably have kids. Two point five cars in the driveway. One of them a mini-van." He takes another long pull of his beer and drops into one of the chairs under a faded umbrella. I drag another next to him and sit, too, pulling on my sunglasses. It's a wonder people don't go blind here, the sun's so bright. 

"Mia will want to come out. You okay with that? When we know the details," I ask him, and he nods. 

"Yeah. She doesn't have to, though. Make sure she knows that." It's automatic, but I let it slide because Mia doesn't do anything she doesn't want to, any more than I do. 

I wish I could say it's the beer that finally lets Brian unwind some, but it's not, not really. The shock wearing off a little, maybe. I see Pamela come to the sliding glass doors and watch us for a minute, but she doesn't come out, and right now, I'm not interested in playing referee. 

It's maybe another thirty minutes before we hear a car and Brian gets up to check out who it is. When he doesn't come back after a minute or two, well, looks like it's time to put on the family face. 

It's Ed and his wife, Gloria. I'm not sure how many names I'm gonna be able to hang onto but I'll give it a shot. Brian's doing okay, looks like, so I hang back, help Renee where I can. 

A couple of hours later, there are more people. Only a few really stay for long, but the phone rings pretty regularly. Brian seems to know most of the people that stop by, and a lot of them are cops. 

There's this whole ritual thing when a cop dies. I guess it's true with most deaths, but I noticed it when Brian's partner was killed. It's like a superstition: take care of the family, in case some day somebody has to do it for yours. 

At one point Brian comes into the kitchen for another beer and stays while his mother is sitting in the living room, playing catch-up. 

"They all work with your dad?" I ask him, and he nods. Besides us, there's not a person here under forty, and most are well past that. Men and their wives, cops and their fears. Earl's got to be a reminder of what this job -- Brian's job -- can cost. 

They're all sorry he's gone, but I catch bits of conversation when they talk to each other. Nobody's disrespecting Earl, really, but the feeling is that it didn't have to be this way -- this house that's hardly lived in, a wife everyone needs to get reacquainted with, a son people know but aren't sure how to approach. Brian's got that distance thing going, but I can't call him on it, don't want to. This is how he dealt with his father for all those years. He was raised right, he knows how to respect his elders. He puts on his game face, thanks them for their condolences. 

I get another beer and then another. Not enough to put a buzz on, but enough to keep me calm. Wondering if these guys and their wives owe their apologies more for Earl's death or for his life. It's a tough call because, having met Earl, he's not a guy anyone could want to spend time with. And the talking they're all doing, it's ancient history, back when Earl was still up and walking around, back when he was a pillar of the community. Back before he drove his wife away and forced his son to grow up too fast. 

Renee puts out food when dinner time hits, and I realize that the trickle of people coming by in the afternoon might turn into something more substantial after people get off work. 

I push Brian toward the food and grab a plate myself, have to stop when the Chief comes in with his wife, a couple of other people. I hear Pamela's voice rise up in something more real than polite greeting and I look in the hall to see her being hugged tightly by a really tall, thin African-American woman. 

There are black and Latino cops here, even one Asian guy who vaguely reminds me of watching Hawaii Five-O as a kid. But I'm not sure I could even call this woman black, because she's got this look about her like she needs really bold prints and bangles on her arm, even though she's wearing what looks like a nurse's uniform. If I saw her on the street I'd look twice -- she's got a face that's all sharp angles and smooth skin, with a long neck and that look that makes you want to straighten your back, maybe catch her eye too. She's the kind of woman you automatically call "ma'am," someone you'd think would have an accent. 

"Ms. Pearce." Brian slides by me, and he's got a smile on his face that I haven't seen all day. This is someone he actually likes. She pulls away from Pamela to open her arms to Brian like she really likes him, too. 

That one sinks in hard. This is the person, or one of them, I've been looking for. She greeted Pamela like she was a long-lost sister, but Brian, she's got hold of him like he's a son she's missed. She hugs Brian, rubs his back and strokes through his hair, kisses on him the way a mother would, saying all the right things -- words that don't mean a damn thing; it's the tone of voice. 

Then she pulls back, grips his face, meets his eyes for a second before turning back to Pamela and slinging an arm around her. She's absolutely going to get her visit in here, and I grin, pull back. I think I want to be a fly on the wall but I don't get the chance, because Brian's guiding her toward me. 

"Ms. Pearce, this is Dom, Dominic Toretto. Elaine Pearce," Brian says. He's looking at me with this hopeful smile on his face. He really wants me to like this woman. 

She's got a grip like a wrestler -- not painful, but firm and strong -- and she meets my eyes for a long minute, like she's memorizing my face. Then she's got an arm back around Pamela's shoulders and she's looking at Brian. "Roman sends his regrets about your dad," she says. "He wouldn't come, though." 

"It's okay," Brian says. "I understand." 

"No, it's not okay, and he's gonna hear about it some more," she says, which makes Brian grin again. "But he is real sorry." 

Brian nods, and Elaine turns her attention back to Pamela, and they both get sucked back into the group in the living room. 

I'm dying of curiosity and give Brian a nudge. "Roman?" 

The smile he had for Elaine fades a little. "Her son. We've been friends since we were kids. We're...not exactly speaking right now. His dad died a few years ago, so this would be tough for him." 

"Wait. He's not talking to you because his dad died?" I ask him, because I'm missing the connection between the two. 

"No," Brian says. "I mean...I didn't expect him to show up." 

I'm still missing something, but I don't get to ask anymore, and now is probably not the time, because Ed shows up to tell Brian the funeral parlor director is here. 

A funeral parlor that makes house calls. I'm still getting my brain wrapped around it when they -- Brian, Pamela, Ed, and the guy in the dark suit -- take over the kitchen table. 

I'm thinking more beer and maybe the pool because Renee has got it handled. I give Brian a high sign to let him know where I'll be. He looks like he wants to come with me, but then Ed asks him something and he's in the middle of it. 

I'm halfway through my beer, wondering if it's worth it to get up for another one. It's quieter out here -- hotter too, but under the umbrella, not moving much, I can deal with the heat, and the sunglasses cut down on the glare off the water. 

I hear the glass door slide open and expect it to be Brian, but it's Elaine Pearce. "You mind the company?" she asks. 

"Not at all," I tell her, sit up a little when she joins me under the shade. 

She sits like a queen or something. It's not -- she doesn't seem stuffy or anything, it's more the way she moves, all one motion, no hurry, puts her drink down, crosses her legs and settles her arms on the metal armrests like they were made just for her. 

"You must not think much of any of us," she says. She's not looking at me at all, studying the sky. It's so out of the blue, so not where my brain is right then, I don't really have answer for her. "All these folks, showing up like they lost some great friend or something." 

Maybe they did. It was just a long time ago. 

"Pamela says you and Brian are good friends. Real close." 

"We're tight," I say, wondering if she's fishing. 

"Good. That's good, because I'm going to tell you something, Dominic Toretto, so when that boy acts crazy on you, you'll know what to do." 

Now she's weirding me out, 'cause I don't know if this is something Pamela put her up to or if she's got some beef of her own. "Ms. Pearce --" 

"Lainey. My friends call my Lainey." 

It's just hot enough for me to get annoyed. "We're not friends yet." 

She flashes a smile at me, white teeth, and she's laughing, all the way to her eyes. "Maybe not, but I think we will be. And even if we're not, you should know this." 

"I know what I need to," I say, and finish off my beer, get up. "Ms. Pearce. Whatever happened here, it's over. And whatever 'these folks' or you could or should have done, the chance is past. And Brian turned out just fine," I tell her. 

"That's true," she says. "I've been friends with the O'Conner's for a long time. Since Brian was in diapers. They're like family to me," she says, and gets up and in front of me. "And now you're family, too." She says it flat out, no flinching -- makes no difference to her. "Only one of 'em's gone. This is like a dish that's broken and you're missing a piece." 

It's missing more than a piece. "Look, Mrs. Pearce --" she gives me a look. Fine. "-- Elaine," I say. "I know this family got broken and I know why. But he's _gone_ , and that may be sad, and I know there's people hurting over it, people you care about, but --" 

She raises her eyebrows. "You think because Earl's dead it's all going to end up okay?" 

I shrug. "It'll end up however it ends up, and what I need to know...." I shake my head. It's one thing to talk to Pamela, but I don't know this woman at all. "I'm gonna find Brian. Excuse me," I say. 

"Ain't no guns in this house," she says as I turn to head for the house. 

"What?" I really want to think she's just a little nuts or looking for forgiveness. Who the hell knows? But that comes out of nowhere. 

"I was his physical therapist when he came home. Just for a few months. Pamela and me, we cleared out the guns. Earl still had his gun from work, a few others. He liked to hunt, too, with the fellas, in season." 

This isn't helping. Guns he would have used? And Pamela left her son here? Left _Brian_ here? 

"He tried four or five times even after that. Wrecked that big old car, driving too fast before he was ready. So she took the keys away. But he found them, so then she left them with neighbors. Had to hide his pills, buy those safety razors. That's when he started drinking. Never drank much before then, before he got shot." 

I don't want to hear this. Maybe I even suspected it. "So Earl tried to kill himself." It's not making me feel any kinder toward Pamela. 

"He did. And when he couldn't figure out a way to do it himself, he started in on her, asking her to do it. And she wouldn't. Then he started trying to make her mad enough to do it. She's got a temper, Pam does. But it's a slow one." 

"So he was a jerk. I figured that one out already." 

"You see how much Brian looks like his mother? Can't look at the two of them and think they aren't related. Not so much for Earl, though. I could see it, watching him grow up. He looked more like Earl when he was a child. But he's Earl's son all right, down to his bones. But she left because he started wondering, out loud, about who Brian's father was. That made her mad, just like he wanted." 

I _really_ don't want to hear this. "You got a point to this?" I ask her, glancing toward the house. 

She looks at me long and hard, then sits back down. She's not smiling anymore. “I do. Brian is his father's son. He pushes people away, keeps pushing until they leave him alone.” 

I'd figured that much out for myself. "And if they don't leave?" I ask, but it's an accusation more than anything. 

"Then he will," she says. 

My jaw clenches. "That would be his choice, wouldn't it?" I ask her, and head back in. 

"Dominic, he could have been a cop _here_ ," she says before I get to the door. 

It stops me for a half second, enough to turn around and look at her. She's looking at me steadily, like she really is telling me something I need to know. Maybe she is. 

I go inside. 

I don't see Brian right away, but I hear him in the living room. A few people look at me, but I'm not anyone they're interested in. I head back toward the bedrooms, to the one I'm sharing with Brian, and close the door behind me. 

I have to wonder what Pamela said to Elaine and when, or if Brian and I should just get matching t-shirts to advertise the fact that we're together. Not that it seems to be making a difference to anyone, except I feel like I've got a target on my back. 

Or not. Of the people here, only Elaine seemed to think I was anything more than a friend. It still gripes my ass though. Mostly because now I can't get what she said out of my head. 

He could have been a cop here. Probably was, but he headed for LA, and I don't know why. 

I don't know shit, and maybe it's Brian I'm really mad at, because figuring this out on my own is a serious pain in the ass and it makes no sense. None at all. 

I could call Mia. I need to tell her anyway, before she gets too worried, because we pretty much left without telling anybody. It's only been a day, but I feel like I've been here a week, and all of it's starting to blur together, like I don't know Brian at all, like what I thought I knew isn't adding up to what I'm seeing now. 

I need some kind of yardstick to measure against, and maybe I'm biased, but my sister is probably the steadiest person I know. 

I find my cell and dial before I can over-think it. I almost hang up before she answers, then decide just to give her the facts and not dump the rest of this on her. 

"Hello? Dom?" she says. 

"Hey, bella. How's it going?" 

"All good. Got a study group in an hour. Oh, I was gonna call you. That guy from the truck leasing company called, want to see if you can handle the maintenance. I think he's stopping by the garage tomorrow with the contracts." 

The timing could not suck more. It's not a huge contract but it would more than pay the bills, keep business steady, delivery trucks that mostly just need the routine stuff. "Fuck." It slips out and I rub at my face. "He say what time?" 

"Morning is all. Hey, what's up? I thought you wanted this." 

"I do, only I'm in Barstow." 

"Uh, okay. Why are you in Barstow?" she asks, like there's a joke in here somewhere. 

I can hear her moving around, walking as she's talking. "Brian's dad...he had a stoke yesterday" 

She stops moving. I've got all her attention. I can hear it in her voice. "No shit? How's he doing?" 

"He died. This afternoon. A few hours ago," I tell her, and it hits me then, like something physical just slammed into my gut. I mean _really_ hits me, since it's not all happening minute by minute, how fast this has been. One hit after another -- no wonder Brian's all over the map. 

"Wow..." Mia says quietly. "That's really sudden. How's Brian doing?" 

"Dealing, I guess," I say. "Kind of hard to tell." 

"What do you mean?" she asks. "Are you okay?" 

I lean back against the headboard. "I'm not sure. This is all...his mother called us." 

"His mom," Mia echoes. She knows as much about Brian's family as I did before yesterday. "She's there?" 

"Yeah. She flew in, drove out here. We've been...Christ, Mia. You have no idea how fucked up this all is," I tell her, and the tightness in my chest eases up some just from saying it. 

"Dom, why don't you tell me what's going on?" 

"You've got a group --" 

"Shut up. Do I need to come down there?" 

I would love that. "No. I mean, maybe for the funeral." 

"Well, yeah," she says. "Dom, are you okay? What's happened? I mean, besides Brian's dad dying, like that's not enough. Is this -- are you having trouble with this because of Dad?" 

"Maybe...I don't know. Some of it, maybe." She would know. I've been holding it together for Brian, but I don't have to hold it together for Mia. "Mia, I got no idea what I'm doing." 

"The best you can. I know you are," she says firmly. It's one of those times she reminds me of my mother. "So tell me. You got a phone call from his mom." 

I tell her. I'm sure I leave out some stuff, but most of it's there: Brian and his mom, the crap at the hospital, what Elaine told me, how Brian's needing me one minute and shutting down on me the next. 

"They don't sound like bad people, D," Mia says. "It's just a bad situation all around. It sounds like they would have helped if they could." 

Easier if they were all assholes, a whole town of morons, but they aren't. They're just people. I'm still frustrated, but not so angry. 

"How do I get him to let me...do anything, help? Fuck." She's quiet for a long time, but she's still there. 

"You can't, D," she says finally. "You can't _make_ him be different than he's being. You either have to wait it out or walk away." 

"I can't do that," I say. My throat's so tight I'm not even sure she heard me. 

"I know." She says it like she really does, or she believes me, maybe both. "It's hard watching somebody you love make a mess of things, but those are the choices, Dom. Do what you can, keep telling him when you think he's wrong, but in the end it's up to him. I don't know any other way," she adds, and now I know she's not talking about Brian -- not entirely. "You can't make him listen.” 

I hear what she's not saying, loud and clear. She's not accusing me of anything, just reminding me. After I got out of Lompoc, when I kept sliding further and further away from doing things legally, got caught up in the racing, the money, the rush, Mia kept trying to tell me that I was screwing up, not just myself but the team, our life, her life. 

I didn't listen. 

This isn't the same, I want to tell her, but it is. Different circumstances, maybe. 

"Dom...those people, they don't know him. Not anymore," she says quietly. 

"I wish he'd told me more." 

She actually chuckles at that. "What was he going to tell you? You already knew his dad was messed up. But what Elaine said -- he didn't leave us when we needed him. He didn't, just like you didn't. Maybe he didn't leave Barstow because he wanted to be left alone. Maybe they didn't give him enough reason to stick around." 

Maybe they didn't. Mia's making more sense than anything -- or anyone -- else. 

"Why would she tell me that?" 

"I don't know, D. I don't know her. Maybe you should ask _her_. But it sounds like, well, it sounds like she maybe thought this would push Brian into doing something he's done before." 

"Like leave." 

"Maybe. I mean, maybe he would have once," she says quietly. "But, Dom, for all the reasons I have to think Brian can be a total asshole," she says, and I wince at that, “not taking care of people he loves, that's not one of them. He's more like you than you think." 

I let that one sink in, deep. Family. It's something Brian and I have in common, even though right now it doesn't look like it or feel like it. "You forgive too easy, bella." 

She laughs again. It's light -- she's making fun of me. It makes me grin. "Forgiving's easy. It's the forgetting part -- never let you live it down." 

She says it, but it's not true. "You know -- Mia, you know I love you, right? I tell you?" 

"You tell me all the time, D. You do. You're the best brother I have." 

"I'm your only brother." 

"Smartest brother too," she teases. "You sure you don't want me to come out there?" 

Not yet. "No. It's just been a long day, Mia." 

She waits just a second, like she's making a decision. "Okay. But if you need me -- if you just _want_ me to, I can. Don't be stubborn, D. You want me to call this guy and put him off for a few days?" 

I consider it and then rub at my eyes again. "No. I'll come home in the morning. We're gonna need clothes anyway, and I gotta pick up the mail. I can meet with him, grab stuff from the house, and come back tomorrow afternoon." 

"Okay. You want me to call the guys, let them know?" 

I have this sudden picture in my head of all of them showing up -- Vince, Leon, maybe Letty. She doesn't much like Brian, but she's still around; she and Mia have gotten a better friendship out of this, and Letty's got a good heart. I gotta wonder what these people would think of my crew. "Yeah, tell them. I don't know when the funeral will be. A couple of days at least." 

"I'll tell them. You take care of Brian, okay? Tell him I'm sorry." 

"I will. I love you, girl. You're the smartest sister I have." 

"I'm your only sister," she says, laughing back at me. "I love you, too. Call me when you get here, okay?" 

"Will do," I say, and disconnect the line, lean my head back. 

I can't fix this for him. I don't even know what it would look like if it wasn't broken. Maybe I understand Pamela better than I thought. 

Part of me wants to stay here in the bedroom. Not like anyone's looking for me or would, except Brian. If he is. 

It doesn't matter if he is. Mia kind of nailed it. When we needed him, Brian was there, and God knows, he had little enough reason to want to be near any of us. 

When I go back out, there's about twice as many people. Renee's putting out more food; good thing they weren't counting on us for anything except beer and soda. I hunt around until I find Brian, kind of locked against the wall with a few of the older cops, swapping stories, talking about his father, the man they knew, maybe the kid he was. Brian doesn't look tense, but he looks tired, and maybe a little out of it. 

I spot Pamela, and Elaine's still here. I should talk to Elaine -- ask her -- but I don't think I'm up to it, not now. 

I really have no interest in meeting Earl's friends, but I keep saying I want to know how it was. Time to put my money where my mouth is. 

Brian sees me coming and I'm the excuse he needs to get out of the group. 

"I wondered where you got to," he tells me. "Are you okay?" 

My throat tightens up again. Funny how that works. I put a hand on his back and push him toward the kitchen. I've had beer, now I need coffee. "I called Mia, just to let her know. How are you holding up?" 

He drops his head, smiles, and gets a cup of his own. "I think I've had the same conversation like ten times. We got the...the funeral will be Saturday morning." 

Three days, right on the money. "Okay," I tell him, crowd him into a corner a little, get about as much privacy as we can without ducking out completely. "I'm gonna have to go back in the morning. Meet a guy at the garage, but I'll stop by the house, get some clothes. You want to come with me?" 

He looks like he wants to. Turns around and looks out the kitchen window. "I probably should stay." 

"Think about it. We'd only be gone a few hours, back by late afternoon." 

He takes a deep breath and nods. "I'll think about it." 

Good enough. I stand close enough to press shoulders with him, slide the sugar bowl toward him. He ducks his head and grins at me, then ladles sugar into his cup. 

It's hours before the last people finally leave; a few help put stuff away. Renee is the very last to go, and Brian walks her out to her car. 

Pamela drops into a kitchen chair, and I hold up the coffee pot. "You want the last of this?" 

"Oh, God. No. I think I may sleep right here." It's only a little past nine but I know how she feels. 

I finish off the pot, rinse it out, and reset it. I'm really hoping Brian doesn't want any more, although it doesn't keep him up. 

I hardly talked to Pamela at all tonight. "Weird for you?" 

"A little," she says with a half smile. "Maybe because I feel like I don't know some of these people at all. And others -- you'd think I just went away for a weekend." 

"Long weekend," I tell her, and don't really mean that like it sounds. She gives me a look and I open my hands; if she wants to take a shot back, I probably deserve it. 

She doesn't say anything for a minute, then reaches over and snags my cup. "You remind me of him. Earl, not Brian," she says, and takes a sip, but only a sip. 

"Earl." 

"A little. Not in a bad way," she adds quickly. "Just...he was never really afraid to show what he felt. Once upon a time." 

There's bitterness now. 

"Why didn't you divorce him?" I ask her. 

She sits up, looks a little shaken. "He tried. I wouldn't sign the papers," she says, and fingers her wedding band. "Better or worse, Dominic. That may sound ridiculous nowadays, but he was willing to settle it, half of everything. Sell the house. I was gone. I was in Boston by then. Brian was taking classes, working. This was home." 

For Brian. Good or bad. 

We hear Brian come in and Pamela gets up. "I'm going to bed," she says, and stops in front of Brian, then just reaches out to hug him. Brian reacts like I'd expect, hugs her back, lets her hold on for as long as she needs to. He looks at me, then squeezes her tight. "We'll see you in the morning," he says when she pulls back. She nods and heads off. 

"You were out there a long time," I tell him, finishing my coffee and putting the mug in the sink. Brian gets the lights. 

"Talking to Renee," he says as we head toward the bedroom. "She's really gonna miss him." 

Miss the income, too, I bet, but keep it to myself. I don't know her and it's not fair. Whatever else, she's been here. Too easy to judge, watching how this all affects Brian. 

We play tag in the bathroom, but Brian wants another shower. He makes it fast, coming back in and closing the door. "What time do you need to leave in the morning?" 

He's not coming with me. I figured, but I wish he would. Maybe just to see if being back on his home turf will make a difference, because no matter what Pamela thinks, this isn't home anymore. "Early, I guess. Try to beat the traffic. You sure you don't want to go?" 

"I don't think I can, Dom. There's lawyers to talk to and shit," he says. I'd forgotten about that, stuff they'd need to get started at least before Pamela heads back to Boston. 

"I can probably put it off for a day or two," I offer, kind of muffled because I'm pulling my shirt off. I could recommend another garage, too. Working on fleet trucks isn't my idea of a great time, but if I can make it regular business, I might actually be able to hire somebody who's certified, or send Leon or Vince off for the training. It was a lot easier to get help when everything wasn't computerized and chipped to hell and back. I love being a mechanic, but I never thought I'd have to have a degree in engineering to do a tune-up. 

"No. Don't," Brian says, coming up to me after I get my shirt off. "There's nothing you can do here, Dom. Just don't forget to come back," he says, and he's grinning but there's less of a joke there than I think. "I'm gonna need my suit anyway." 

"Not your uniform?" I ask him, and I want to check his face but I can't because he's toweling his hair. 

He pushes the towel off his head; his hair's all fluff and clumps, like a dog after a bath. "No. The uniforms will be there, but I'll be strictly civilian," he says. "It'll kind of be like Tony's funeral. Not full honors but..." he says, and has a look on his face like that doesn't sit well with him. 

"You decide that?" 

He shrugs, tosses his towel onto the end of the bed, and rakes his hands through his hair. "No. Ed and my mom, and the Chief, I guess. Makes sense. Line of duty and all that." And he's off hunting for his sweats, talking the whole time about the details. 

Which I really don't care about. What I'm hearing is that Brian's convincing himself. I put my hands on his hips and keep him from twisting away. "And if it were up to you?" I ask him, which it is, as much as up to his mother or his father's partner. 

He goes still, drops a hand on my shoulder and gives it a few moments' thought. "It would be...less. Small and quiet and just, good-bye, you know? But it's not just me." 

No, maybe not. But it was for a long time. 

I was pretty numb through my own father's funeral, not that it was a little thing. There were lots of people there -- friends, people from the track, relatives that I barely knew but that my dad had kept in touch with after my mother died. I knew most of them but I honestly don't remember much of it. It was a couple of years later that I said goodbye to my father, after I got out of prison. There wasn't even much of a body to bury, but there's a marker next to my mother's grave. "Beloved Husband and Father." Mia goes by, leaves flowers occasionally. She says she went more often when I was in, when she needed somebody to talk to. I know the feeling. 

"So you do yours when you're ready," I tell him. 

I don't know what I said, what triggers Brian to suddenly swallow and look away. Not that I'm surprised -- there's all this stuff locked inside him, like there was in me when my dad died, anger and fear and things I might not even guess at. Brian can say he doesn't care, act like that until he turns blue. 

He really is a shitty liar. To me, anyway. 

He does that thing with his hand, pressing his thumb and two fingers into his eye sockets like there's an off switch there somewhere. 

Sometimes I hate that what I feel is so close to the surface all the time. If I'm pissed off I yell, slam things around -- there isn't anybody within ten miles of me that doesn't know when I'm pissed off. I like to laugh loud, I get excited and I'm all about making sure everyone's feeling good. Used to be, I'd win a race and you'd think I was at the Super Bowl, dancing in the end zone. 

Grief, too. I cried like a baby when my dad died. For Jesse, too, when I actually had time to think about him, down in San Felipe, with Letty and Leon. We cried and we got really drunk. Got it out. Shared it. It still hurt like hell. 

But Brian fights it off with everything he's got; whether from habit or because he thinks it's a weakness, I have no idea. Maybe something he learned from his father. 

I shouldn't have to tell him that whatever he feels is okay. We live in California, for God's sake. I think they put something in the water. But I pull his hand away before he gouges an eye out or something. There's nobody here to see him but me. 

I don't say anything, just hold his jaw, make him look at me. Maybe it's me more than him; maybe I need to know he's dealing with at least some of what he's feeling. I need to know it before I head out in the morning and leave him here with his mother and his father's old friends in this town full of strangers he's known his whole life. 

I don't know what I expected, but it isn't this. His arms are suddenly around me, his mouth pressed to mine. Maybe I should have expected it. He was like this after Tony's funeral, needy and hungry and demanding, but not this desperate. It's like he wants something but doesn't know how to ask. 

Doesn't occur to me to turn him down, to try to get him to explain it, or spell out the details. The towel is more annoyance than barrier, my pants and underwear not much more than that, and it's not like I'm going to complain about having Brian pressed so close to me his pubic hair is rubbing against my dick and my belly. He's still warm and damp from his shower, and there's drops of water on his back. 

Maybe I should think about this more, but I can't. Don't want to. I've been thinking so much that my brain hurts from trying to figure the angles and the pitfalls here. This is more honest, more real; this is what makes the rest of it make sense. 

Brian can hedge and dance around the truth with words, but not with this. Not the way his hands move over me, not when his breathing gets ragged and his body's hard, his mouth is hot and wet on my skin like I'm something he needs as much as air or water. 

The bed is lower than ours, not as firm, and it squeaks and bounces when we hit it. I've got two seconds of gratitude that there's another bedroom between us and Pamela, that the bathroom is at the end of the hall, and then I've got Brian's dick in my hand and his tongue in my mouth. I can't fix the rest of it, can't even make it easier, but I can give him this, take what he's offering and have absolutely no doubts at all. 

When Brian gets worked up it's like he grows an extra pair of hands, moving so fast and in so many places I can't keep track -- digging into my sides, rubbing over my head, roaming between my legs. Then our legs are tangled together and Brian's sucking and biting at my left nipple. I dig my fingers into his ass and his head comes up when I press deep. He gets up on his hands and knees over me, pressing down, his dick rubbing on mine, thrusting against me. 

He stops, gasping for air. "I want to fuck you," he says, still pushing against me like if he can't have my ass, my navel will do just as well. 

"Get something," I tell him, and he kisses me hard, then lunges across the bed, grabbing for his kit. He almost drops it and I squirm out from under him, pull the lube out of his hand and roll him over so he's on his back. 

I wrap a handful of slick around his cock and smear the leftover along my ass before moving over him. I'd rather see him and he's not objecting, rubbing my thighs as I straddle him. He's letting me drive and I guide him in. 

I have to remember to breathe, to relax, although thinking is really not a priority when the head of his dick pushes in. I'm bigger than Brian, but even so, he feels big, hard, tight, like he's not going to fit, or it should hurt more than it does. 

It doesn't hurt, just a little burn and sting as he stretches me out, jerks his hips a little when he can't hold back any more. He lifts a knee, shifts just enough for me to feel it, for the angle to work, for him to hit me just right and send a pulse through me that's not like anything else I've ever felt, like nothing I'd ever expected. Not just in my dick and my balls, but everywhere. It feels so good, so amazing, that I pull up just to press back again, feel him slide inside me. 

"God, you feel so good," he says, pushing up, fingers digging into my thighs again, thrusting, but not hard or deep -- he can't with my weight pressing him down, and I lean forward a little to give him more room, watching the flush spread over his chest. 

We swap off a little, sometimes him doing the work, sometimes me. It's slow, it's driving us both crazy, but not enough to rush it. I love riding his cock, watching what it does to him, bringing him up to the edge and backing off. Love what it does to me, the feeling I get in my gut, the shiver I get when he hits me just right. He knows when he does it, looks all smug and satisfied. I don't even have to admit I like it out loud, he knows it. 

He rubs up over my chest when I'm gasping for air, feeling like another second of having him inside me might kill me. I lean forward, give myself more leverage, give him more room. I see it hit Brian like a wave, when his head goes back, his mouth open, barely able to say my name. Every muscle in his body tightens, all through his chest and his throat like something is winding up tight inside him. He can't stop jerking his hips and twisting, and I feel him come. My ass gets slick and wet and Brian's got his eyes closed and his breathing is shaky, his head back against the mattress. 

I'm not breathing so good myself when I lift up, needing to stretch, reaching for my dick 'cause I'm still really fucking hard. 

Brian tugs at my legs, lifting his head. There's no headboard to grab onto, so I go up on all fours. It would take a stronger man than me to say no to that mouth of his. It's all I can do not to push in, to fuck his mouth slow like he just did my ass, but Brian's got it covered even when I do jerk a little from feeling his tongue against me, his lips closing around me in a tight seal. I drop my head so I can watch my dick filling his mouth, pressing into his throat, his hand meeting his lips midway. I'm fisting the sheets, not sure if I'm going to come before my legs give out, I'm shaking so hard. 

It's those extra hands of his, I swear, because one second he's got a hand wrapped around my dick and one on my thigh, and the next there's fingers in my ass, hunting out the spot. I can't even warn him before I come, groaning his name, and I hear him swallow and then gasp for air. I pull back so I don't fall on him, my hand pressed to the pillow beside his head, watching my dick slide across his lips. He lifts his head like he's gonna follow my dick, his hand giving me a last milking as I pull free. Christ, I'm still pumping come. It falls on his face, on his throat, the last spurt of it landing on his chest as I sit back on my calves. I can feel his soft dick pressed to my ass as I suck air to give me enough strength to shift off him. 

His hand trails along my thigh as I lever myself to his side, dropping hard enough to make us both bounce which makes Brian laugh. I love that sound and roll over to see it, see him. There's come on his face and his throat, pale lines of it on his skin, some still on his lips. 

I clean it off his mouth with my own, brush it off his cheek, and smear it across his throat. I'm still shaking, but I stretch out, rub my palm over his chest and down to his belly. I kiss him so he can tell that I'm hungry for him, so greedy I might choke on his tongue. He smells like sweat and soap and come, my come. It's strongest at his neck and I bury my face there, rolling to my side and pulling Brian up with me. He holds on just as tight, locking our legs together, rubbing just his fingertips over the back of my skull. 

Gravity eventually pulls us over; Brian's on his back again, palming my ass with that lazy stroke he's got that doesn't really get me going again, but keeps me on a low burn. Night's young, right? 

He doesn't say anything at first, but he's not sleeping, even though his eyes are closed. Eventually I prop up on one elbow, just looking at him. The room's cool, but his skin still looks wet in places, almost like it's oiled around his pecs, and I spread my hand there, fingers wide, watching his nipple tighten up when my thumb brushes it. Feel his heartbeat under my palm, watch his stomach flutter when I stroke lower. He's rubbing along my back and shoulders now and finally opens his eyes to look at me. 

I never thought guys were beautiful. Good-looking, handsome, too girly, rugged, boyish – there's a zillion ways to describe other guys without actually thinking about it, without actually stopping to look. You hear chicks say it, and roll your eyes, thinking they're talking about the not-quite-real actors and celebrities and wannabes that are all over LA. 

It seems really strange that it was always the pretty girls that tripped me up, caught my attention. Even when I was with Letty, women turned my head, gave me looks that went right to my dick. It's not that I never noticed that Brian was gorgeous; it was just that it didn't register like that, like something I gave two shits about other than to think that if my sister fell for him he'd give her pretty kids. And maybe when I first met him, I thought Brian _was_ too pretty -- airhead, blond, surfer -- the kind of guy who annoyed me just on general principal. 

Easy to label people on sight. Happens to me because of how I look, how I act, my coloring, my neighborhood. 

Weird to think now how much I do like looking at Brian, watching him. But it isn't his looks that got me, that still get me, it's all the other stuff -- that he's cocky and sure and funny. That he never backs down, never seems afraid. That he's more loyal than I have any right to ask for. That he's both less honest and more honest than anyone I've ever known. Most people, when they lie, do it to cover their own asses. Brian lies and it's almost always for somebody else. 

My hand is still resting on his chest when it hits me, why Brian is like this here and now, running hot and cold on his mother, hot and cold with me. 

He can't protect all of us. Not at the same time. I'm not even going to try to figure out why he thinks he should, because -- that one will probably take me a lifetime to understand. He can't protect his mother from her choices, the ones that left him here. Every time she looks at him, she's got to see it, feel it, know it. Easier to pretend it's not there if you only talk on the phone every other month, maybe, but it's still there. And he can't protect me from any of this, although God knows he's been trying. What hurts him, hurts me, and he knows it. So if I can't see the hurt... 

"Dom?" he asks me, looking worried, his hand coming back up to stroke over the back of my head. He rolls back up on his side. "You seeing ghosts, Toretto?" he asks like he's joking, but he really does look a little uneasy. 

"Maybe," I say, and lie back. He follows me, resting on my chest with his chin on his fist. I wonder if I should say something, because I'm still guessing. I mean, would telling him what I think make a difference? I'm not his shrink, I'm his lover, his friend. Family. 

I push my fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes, like a cat that I've found the right place to scratch. It's still damp, clings to my fingers. "Bri...all this stuff with your dad, your mom...you could have told me," I say finally, trying to not accuse him. 

He moves his fist, spreads his hand on my chest. "I know. I should have. Before. It's just that after a point...it stops feeling real, you know? Talking about it never did any good. Even back then. By the time she left, no one was talking. It wasn't Dad being angry and pissed off and wanting it to be over. It wasn't Mom trying to find a way to make it better or even a little more normal. It was just the...silence." He says the last so quietly I almost don't hear him. "It got to be that it was worth it just to work Dad up so he'd yell and go on about whatever. But it made it worse. Because Mom got quieter. I used to go over to the Pearce's place just because they talked to each other. About stupid shit." 

I stroke through his hair again. I can't make him listen, but I can listen to him. Not what I was expecting. I mean, it's not something horrible, except it is. "And you can't talk to me?" I ask him. "It wasn't a problem before. Is it a problem now?" 

"It's not you, Dom," he says. "It's this house, this town. I get back here and all I can hear is all the things that never got said. Things I should have said or could have but didn't. I still can't. I want to. To tell her it's okay. I've tried. She doesn't hear me. When she came and got me out of San Bernardino, she talked. Apologized, tried to find something to make it better, to fix it. All the way to the beach." He takes a breath and pushes up to sit. "I took a walk. Asked her to wait. By the time I got back, she was worried, scared I'd taken off, and I knew...words weren't going to fix it. They didn't matter. What we do matters. Words just...fuck it up." 

I have to sit up, because this is Brian, Brian who can talk to anybody, who uses words like I use touch. 

But maybe it makes more sense now, because any time before now, I'd have said his words matched his actions. I mean, that's kind of standard isn't it? Walk the walk, don't just talk the talk. 

"If there was something she could have done or said to make it better, she would have, you know?" he says. "They always talked before. They...they didn't fight, hardly ever. Not that I remember or that I heard. And afterward, it just felt like that's all they ever did, because...he kept asking her..." he stops and shakes his head. "To do something she couldn't do. That if she loved him..." 

She'd put him out of his misery. 

I grip the back of his neck. "Elaine -- Mrs. Pearce -- told me, about the guns...and the keys," I tell him, partly so he won't have to say it, partly so that maybe whatever he was expecting from me if he said it, maybe he'll get something else. Like that I understand. 

For just a second he freezes under my hand, and then he lets go; I can feel all the tight muscles relaxing. "She couldn't stay here, Dom," he says, and what he told her in the hospital makes a lot more sense. There was nothing she could do. Maybe Brian is right and there never was. 

"Brian...did he ask you, after she was gone, did he..." 

"No. No...not then. Not like that," he says, looking at me. "Just a few years ago, when he was in the hospital for bronchitis. That's when we talked about it. When he filled out the paperwork." 

The 'do not resuscitate' order, the living will and all that. Not the same thing, but it was still Earl asking Brian to do what Pamela couldn't. And Brian had done it. 

I let my arm slide around his neck, pull him toward me. 

It would be easy to blame Earl for this, to hate him for what he did to his wife and son, but I can't help but think about all those pills, about the fact that at least in the last few years, if he'd really wanted to off himself, he could have found a way. And he didn't ask Brian to do it, not when Brian was a kid. Makes me wonder if Earl was trying to drive Pamela away, force her to get a new life, to stop playing nursemaid to a man who couldn't be a good husband or father any more. 

I tighten my arms around Brian, feel his lips at my throat, his breath against my skin. I think maybe Mia and Elaine are both right. Brian tried to protect his mother by pushing her away. Who's to say Earl didn't try the same thing? Brian learned it from somebody. 

_"...Earl's son all right, down to his bones..."_

* * *

It's a couple of hours before we actually get to sleep. Like sex wears us out and revs us up at the same time. Brian talks some -- both of us staying away from really touchy topics, but I get a better idea of how he was as a kid. The trouble he got into -- most often with his friend Roman, apparently -- and even then I don't press him for whatever's causing trouble between them now, because it just feels good to hear Brian laugh about anything. 

His dad, too, although the memories are older, but they still count, right? Building forts under the dining room table, his Dad teaching him to swim. The pool got a lot of use when Brian was a kid. It almost gets used tonight, because Brian gets a look on his face that I'm hard-pressed to deny when he suggests skinny-dipping like a fourteen year old. 

But as much as I appreciate the lack of hassle Pamela's giving us, I'm really not prepared for her to see me in all my glory, even accidentally. Not that I'm that modest, but it's his _mother_. 

I half want to keep asking him questions just to keep him talking, because this is the Brian I know, where things aren't so much secret as he just doesn't think about them until you prod him a little. 

At one point we get up and raid the refrigerator, snag a couple of beers and a plate of sandwiches, only to come back, strip down, and eat while trying not to get mayo on the blankets. 

Maybe the extra fuel or the beer sets us off again. Maybe it's me leaving in the morning, although that seems like a stretch. I'll only be gone a few hours, even if it seems like it'll be for longer. Brian's not that clingy, and neither am I. Demanding, though, which is more normal for us than not. 

Maybe there is something in the water. 

Slower build-up this time, with Brian paying attention to all the spots that drive me crazy, that I never knew I had until I met the persistent son of bitch that found them all: lower back, under my arms, the back of my left calf. Brian's got his own, like the hollow of his hip or the nape of his neck, a personal favorite because a little pressure there from fingers or teeth will make him stretch out like his spine's unrolling. When I bite him there and rub over his hip, he practically comes from that alone. I have no objections to using that knowledge, pulling him up on his side when I'm buried deep, holding him that way, listening to him moan and swear softly when I take my time. Gets me off better than the tightness of his ass. 

We fall asleep that way. I'm not in his ass, but when the alarm goes off at five, I'm still snug up against his back and my arm's gone numb from resting under him for a few hours. I hiss when I pull free. Pins and needles. 

I work it out in the shower, trying to hurry. When I get out, Brian's got his sweats on and coffee made. He still looks half asleep and he smells like sex. It's all I can do to force my ass out the door and head home rather than tumble him back into bed and say fuck it to the contract. 

"I'll be back this afternoon, evening maybe," I tell him when he walks out with me. There's a few lights on, neighbors getting up to start their day. 

"I'll be okay, Dom," he tells me, and I actually believe him now. 

"Be nice to your mother," I warn him, half joking, and he grins, shows me his teeth, rubs a hand over my skull. 

"I will be. You like her," he says. I give it a half second's thought. I do. I'm not too keen on some of the things she's done, no matter the reasons, but Mia was right: these are not bad people, not stupid people. Pamela made a bad choice in a bad situation and that's something I understand too well. My bad choices landed me in prison, Pamela's separated her from the two people I really do think she loved best in the world. Hard to say who served the tougher sentence. 

"Yeah, I do," I tell him, and it must be the right thing because he grins again, ducks his head and looks at me like I'm the best thing he's ever seen. 

I know the feeling. Fuck the neighbors. I hook an arm around his neck, kiss him hard. "Try to get some rest," I tell him, and get in the car. Brian stays on the sidewalk until I can't see him anymore. 

My brain is quiet for most of the drive and I push it a little, not because I'm in a hurry or anything, but just to feel the speed and power. Freedom, I used to think. It still can be, but maybe I don't need it so much anymore. I'll never stop loving it, though. I swear, when all this is settled I'm dragging Brian off to someplace with a lot of open, unused road; we'll take two cars and make CalTrans earn their keep, rubbing out skid marks. 

I do hit traffic, of course, probably would have even if I'd left at three, but I can deal with it. I make it to the house with time to spare. If that guy shows up at my garage before nine, he is shit out of luck. 

There's not a ton of mail, bills mostly, and there's a couple of messages on the machine, one of them from Mia. I get changed into slacks and a shirt and then hunt out suits for Brian and me. Not that I'm looking forward to putting it on in the middle of the afternoon in Desert, USA, but you do what you have to. Brian's got two good ones, one light grey and one that's darker, and I pull out both and shirts. My own is black, and the last time I wore it was to Tony Rico's funeral. Maybe I need to take it out for a spin to get the jinx off. 

Brian's uniforms are hanging in the front of the closet, two of them still in plastic bags from the cleaners. Makes me wonder if there's still an old one of Earl's around anywhere. 

Brian looks good in his uniform. He doesn't wear it much around me, though the problem's more in his mind than in mine. Yeah, I still have a tendency to clench my jaw when I see cops talking to somebody, wondering if it's legit or if they're just in the mood to hassle, and that part of Brian's life is still pretty separate from our life together, but that's mostly Brian's choice. Says something about him that he'd rather hang with my set than forge any stronger ties to the cops he knows, even the good ones. 

But there's hassles there, too. People think someone as good looking and charming as Brian has it easy. Even a lot of his fellow officers think that Brian gets preference, that he's got pull. The fact is that Brian really is good at what he does, and he mostly loves his job, but the real assholes he works with think he's got more advantage than ability, or look at him and me and think he's crooked. Or the idea of two guys together just turns their guts. 

I've only caught the edge of it. Thinking back over the last couple of days, I've got to wonder if it's not _worse_ than Brian's saying, if he's not catching more flack than the petty shit he sometimes gripes about. 

I hate this. I hate that all of this is bringing up doubts I didn't have before, like that maybe I can't trust him to tell me what's really going on. Add that to the list of things we're gonna have to talk about. And doesn't that just make me all bright and cheerful. 

Fuck. 

I pack up some other clothes, too, because chances are we'll be there through the weekend. Brian can get three days of bereavement leave, but he's cutting into his vacation days for the rest. Which will probably kick up more resentment among the brotherhood of assholes even though Brian's covered enough shifts for other guys for the same reason. 

I leave the packed bags in the living room -- I'll pick them up on the way back -- and head to the garage. It's not quite opening time yet, and I unlock the gates but leave the bay doors closed until Vince and Leon show up. There's a couple of cars that weren't there when I left, but the work tickets are up and they aren't anything Vince and Leon can't handle. 

They both come rolling in about five minutes to nine. Vince looks like he hasn't been to bed yet, but I'll give him this, he shows up. I'm not sure I'd trust him with anything more complicated than a screwdriver for a couple of hours, but he's here. He usually is, especially when I'm not. Sometimes he might roll in a few minutes late if he knows there's nothing on deck, but that's usually good for breakfast of some sort on him. 

Leon can be flakier. Truth is he's a better mechanic than Vince, and he's better with the customers, but sometimes I think his mom dropped him on his head, because he can totally zone out on me. I used to think it was drugs, but it's really just Leon. 

I still miss Jesse, just for the sheer energy of him, for the conversations that came out of nowhere. For the magic he could work on cars. He wasn't reliable, though, not like these two. Leon might flake out for a few minutes at a time, but Jesse, Jesse could be gone for days and still be standing right in front of me. If I put an engine in front of him, he'd work it until it purred like a cat, but other times, I really wondered if he might wander off and forget how to find his way home. 

Vince is awake enough to stop for coffee. We've got a pot here, but he's got this favorite little secret place that serves up thick coffee with heavy cream and cocoa -- it'll put hair on your chest and make you happy about it. 

"Have a good time last night, Vince?" I ask him when hitches himself up on the work bench, downing half his cup without breathing. 

"I think so. I don't really remember," he says, grinning at me. "Sorry about Brian's dad, man. Tell him, okay?" 

I shrug. "You can tell him. Funeral's Saturday." 

Vince looks uncomfortable but he nods, like he'll think about it. Vince doesn't quite get as twisted up about Brian and me as Letty can. We've been friends too long not to get that straightened out. But he didn't _like_ Brian at first. Pretty much hated his guts, which had to do with a lot of things, but part of it was about Mia. Sometimes he remembers that. But he's still my friend, hangs with us, works with me, and if he doesn't think about it, he actually likes Brian fine. Vince just has a weird way he deals with people, like they have to fit into a certain category, and he hasn't quite figured out where Brian belongs. 

"He want us to show?" Leon asks me as he sets out the tool cases, checks the tickets. 

"Yeah. His dad was a cop, you know?" I remind them. Leon nods, he gets it. Be good. Although these two cutting up would make Brian laugh more than anything. 

I switch topics. "That guy Webster is coming by sometime this morning -- the truck lease for the interior place." 

"We gonna do the fleet?" Vince asks. 

"Looks like." 

"Sweet," Vince says, and grins. Yeah, it will be, GMC trucks, no problems with parts -- it's a cruise job. "We gonna get a tow finally?" 

We've talked about it. I can usually rent one when we need it, but they cost me a mint. "Maybe. I'll give C Harley a call, see if he can get a line on one," I say, and Vince and Leon grin at each other like kids. It's just another big toy to them. "Anything I need to be doing?" I ask them, but they've got it covered and I head into the office. 

Webster shows up about a half hour later, with papers, specs, previous maintenance records, and contracts. I want Mia to look over the numbers, because they want the routine maintenance to start soon and that means cutting out some time when I could be handling regular business, but it looks good and, really? The flat rate fee is nothing to sneeze at, plus I can dump most of it back into the business. Can't come to me - I'd end up handing half of it back to the courts. 

But the numbers look good. Vince may get his tow truck. 

I give Mia a call, see if she's free for lunch, make sure Vince and Leon have the number to the house in Barstow and not just my cell. I think about calling Brian -- finger my phone, then pocket it. 

Mia comes to get me at the garage, wraps her arms around my neck when she sees me and I hug her right back, hard, lifting her off the floor until she giggles. There is no one on the planet I love more than my sister. Brian knows it, he even likes it. And I know he'd take care of her if something happened to me. It's not even entirely separate from what I feel for Brian. 

It isn't reminders of my dad that make this so hard. It's what I have with Mia, with my oh-so-smart, beautiful, loving baby sister. What we had with our parents. Because we had it good. 

Half the people I know have busted up families, lives that got broken and no one's sure why. It would be easy to take what I've got for granted. I did once upon a time, took Mia for granted, my team, Letty. Maybe Letty especially. But Mia -- I got no excuse for what I put her through. Watching Brian trying to sort through the broken parts of his family, seeing how that's all there is -- I swear I'm never taking my family for granted again. 

We head to a little Mexican place that's close to the garage, locals only mostly. Mia goes through the paperwork while we wait for the food. She's all business, makes notes, but she seems pretty satisfied. "You want me to run a copy by Miguel?" she asks me when she's done. 

He's our CPA, does the business taxes, but he was a lawyer once. Disbarred for something he won't talk about -- maybe back-talking a judge, because he's got a mouth on him. "Yeah. Need to get them back to Webster, though." 

She chews on her lips. "Sign it, then. I'll take them to Miguel, and if it's good I'll take them over to Webster tomorrow." 

"You have class tomorrow?" 

She grins at me. "One. I think I can find the time, D." 

I grab the papers back. "I'll hunt down Miguel. I'm sure he has a FedEx account. I work. You finish school," I tell her, and she makes a face. "It's handled." 

Mia throws her hands up in the air, surrendering, then sits back as they bring our food. We start in, then she gives me another look. "You look tired." 

I shrug, take a bite of my taco. "We were up late last night," I say, and Mia doesn't ask for more details. "He's dealing with lawyers today," I add. 

"What's his mom like?" 

"He looks like her. A lot," I tell her, and Mia processes that while she eats. "She's okay. Nice. Kind of fucked up," I tell her. Mia gives me that smirk. 

"Nobody's at their best times like this, Dom," she says and I know she's right. "What's going on? Really." 

Mia knows me too well plus she's smart in ways that have nothing to do with books. 

I take a long swallow of beer. "I...can't trust him, Mia," I say finally, quiet because I don't even want to hear myself say it. "Not...I can with my life or my money, but not with who he is. I don't know who I'm seeing." 

"Bullshit," Mia says, harshly enough to jerk my head up. She leans over the table. "D, I love you, but you've got Brian built up like he's -- he's not better than you, Dom. He's not smarter or more honest or more together. He's just a guy, a good guy. Everybody picks their story. Even you." 

There's color in her cheeks now. "I cannot believe I am talking to you about this," she says, and she's half-embarrassed, half mad. "D, you've known Letty forever. And until Brian there _wasn't_ anyone else. I know it's hard, all this stuff coming at you so fast. He's got a whole history you weren't part of. Name me one other person you know, one other friend you have, that you can say that about." 

There isn't anyone. I really do think about it. Leon comes closest, but I know everything about him, his childhood, his mother taking off, what he likes on his pizza. What kind of girl he goes for. 

My closest friends: Vince, Letty, Leon, Hector, a few others -- even the people I do business with I've known for years. Most of them I knew before I went to Lompoc, some I've known even longer than that, like since we were kids. 

I fell hard for Brian, knew it was right before we did anything about it. But I don't have that history with him. 

Mia reaches across the table and twines her fingers with mine. "I've been watching you guys for months, and you," she says, squeezing hard on my hand, "you are happier than I remember you being for a long time. I mean, happy in the way that you don't have to do anything to feel good. Not racing, not making deals. You're not looking for the next rush. I don't worry about you so much," and that sly smile is back. 

"Worry about me?" I say, faking shock. 

She grins. "Not so much. Really." Her smile fades a little and I rub at my face with both hands: brain scrubbing. 

"So I'm making too much of all this." 

She shrugs, goes back to her food. "I think you're worried about him. I think he needs that. But he's not...he's not Letty, or Vince, or even me. He doesn't look to you to lead the way. He's used to going it alone, Dom. It's gonna take time for him to know, to really _know_ he doesn't have to anymore. I think he probably knows it, but he doesn't --" 

"Trust it yet. Me." 

"Maybe. Not like he _can't_. He just doesn't know how." 

I let that sink in, chew some food. Let Mia off the hook. She's right. And this isn't fair to her, to ask her to think about Brian this way. Because it's awkward and weird and still I can't help but think that Brian has great taste in women. 

"What are you grinning about?" she asks me suspiciously. I can't wipe the smile off my face and I try. I really do. I just put my hands up to fend her off before she throws food at me or something. I sidestep the looks she's giving me by asking about her group. She's knows what I'm doing, plays anyway. 

"You want me to come up tomorrow?" she asks when I've paid the check and we're mostly done, just finishing up our drinks. 

"No. Really, no," I tell her. "Come down with everybody on Saturday." Might be good for Pamela to see that, to know Brian's got people looking out for him now. "I don't know what he's got going on tomorrow, but I promise if we need something, I'll call you, okay?" 

That satisfies her and we head out. Mia drops me off at the garage and stays long enough to talk to Vince and Leon about Saturday. Vince may have doubts about going, but he really sucks at saying no to Mia, always has. 

I make sure there's nothing else they need, then call Ortiz, make sure he's in the office. He is, and it takes us an hour or so to go over the contracts, make changes. Then I sign them and he overnights them back to Webster. 

Traffic's already picking up when I head back to the house to get our stuff. I call Brian before I leave. 

"You get the contract?" he asks. 

He sounds better, more energy in his voice. "Yeah. All handled. What are you doing?" 

"Nothing much. There's some people here, but I ducked them all. Working on my tan." He's by the pool, then. 

"Save me a spot," I tell him. 

I grin at his "Always." 

"I'm running a little behind -- traffic. I may wait it out, head out there around seven or so," I tell him. 

"Don't...just stay home tonight, Dom." 

I grit my teeth. "Bri, I really don't want to have this argument again." 

"I'm not...No, listen," he says. "I'm sorry. I don't mean it that way. I'm fine. I really am. Not stressing. Mom's going out to dinner with Elaine and Renee and a few other fiends. If you want to come back...I'm good with it. But I'm okay." 

He really does sound okay and I think he's just trying to save me a long drive. 

This isn't about him, right this second. I need to be there, but for some reason I can't say that, and it's frustrating. It occurs to me that Brian's probably been feeling like this for days now. 

"Dom? Don't be mad, okay?" he says. "It's up to you. I'm just saying --" 

"I'll be there in a few hours," I tell him. "I'm not mad," I add. Not entirely true. 

"Okay. I...wanted to ask. But I can wait." 

God, give me patience. "Brian, what?" 

"You feel up to being a pallbearer?" he asks, in a rush 

Stops me for a second. "Yeah. Sure. Isn't it supposed to be -- I mean, just cops?" 

"Yeah, usually. But...I thought about what you said. About what I wanted, what Dad would want. I'd really like you to be there with me." 

"Then I'll be there," I tell him. 

"Thanks." 

I press my hands to my eyes, that thing he does. "You're welcome," I say, and it's a fight to keep my voice normal. "I'll see you in a few hours." 

"I'll be here." 

I disconnect, set the phone down carefully. I don't know if I want to break something or just cry. It's never the big stuff, right? Hearts don't break, they get chipped away until they start cracking, and then it just takes one really good hit to shatter them. 

Brian could do that to me. It's kind of embarrassing to admit, even to myself. Mia may be right that I've built Brian into something, someone, other than who he is. It's not that I can't see his flaws, don't know that sometimes he drives me batshit. Less hard to admit that I admire him as much as I love him. 

Funny thing is, now that I think of it, if this situation was reversed, I don't think Brian would break, I think he'd get harder. Be less willing to risk everything he's got so far. I take a deep breath that's not steady. This is what I've been seeing, right? How Brian protects people he cares about. I've been missing how he protects himself in doing it. Not letting people, even people who he _knows_ love him, get close enough that they can break him. 

And then there's me. Maybe I muscled my way in, but I gotta say, having met his mother and Elaine, I don't think either of them are slouches when it comes to getting in his face when necessary. Pamela may be more subtle about it, but she hasn't given up, and Brian, for whatever reason, has always left that door open. Taking what he could, whatever wouldn't cost him too much. 

I don't know what it is about me that made him throw that whole strategy away. He didn't even know when he did it that he was going to get anything out of it except trouble. 

I start moving stuff to the car, still chewing on it. I'm no prize, not for Brian, not on paper. A cop and an ex-con. Ex-con twice over. It's no big secret among his co-workers who he's sleeping with, living with. And among my set, also not the most popular arrangement. I don't really give a shit about most of the people who have problems with it, and the people on my own team have learned to deal with it, even if they don't like it. 

I'm not sure we could have made things any harder on ourselves if we'd tried. But this is still the best thing that's ever happened to me. _Brian_ is the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I wasn't looking for it, wasn't expecting it. Totally blindsided. 

I grab the bags and head out to the car. Fuck the traffic. What's at the end of it is worth the time it'll take me to get there. 

* * *

It would figure the traffic would suck worse than usual because I have somewhere I need to be. After a couple of hours I'm ready to pull off the road and wait until, say midnight, and then cruise my way to Barstow. It feels like I'd get there faster. But I don't. I do call Brian to let him know I'll be late. 

But he promises me the house will be empty. Pamela's not meeting her friends until after seven, which means we might get a couple of hours with nobody around. 

Okay, he doesn't say that, but it's there under his voice, when he asks if I brought swimsuits. I tell him no. 

"Guess you'll have to go without, then," he tells me. 

I manage to zone on traffic for nearly thirty minutes, alternately thinking about Brian naked in the pool and then tripping over the fact that his father died yesterday. Respect for the dead and all that. Somehow, Brian naked in the pool wins out. 

When I do finally get there, the front light is on and the driveway is empty of cars except for Earl's Seville. The door's unlocked. The TV is on but no one's watching it, but there's a fairly fresh pot of coffee made. I hunt around for Brian. 

Brian isn't naked in the pool; he's entirely and totally crashed out on our bed with some pictures and photo albums, a couple of empty beer bottles, and no shoes on. I leave our stuff in the hall and crouch down beside him, trying not to wake him up. 

The photos are old, mostly Polaroids, fading from age. 

It takes me a minute to realize they aren't his -- I mean, not his family. He's in them, and there's even a couple of Earl and Pamela; they're both younger, Earl on his feet. 

But I recognize Elaine, and a man who has to be her husband, and a boy, all big eyes and long limbs and dark skin -- has to be Roman. In one, he's got an arm slung around Brian's shoulders, both of them grinning to show off matching missing front teeth. Definitely a Kodak moment. 

I flip through the album quietly. It's got to belong to Elaine, because a lot of the pictures are just her family. But Brian's in plenty. Pretty much all ages, including one that has to be from around the time his dad was shot. Fewer of those. Little attitude there, fewer big grins and more bored looks, but a couple of goofy kid shots still. Mostly when it's him and Roman in the picture. 

Family, like Elaine said. 

Toward the back are more recent pictures, if ten years ago or so could be recent. Some are loose. 

Roman obviously grew into those long limbs. Brian, too, when I look at a picture of him at eighteen, maybe twenty. He doesn't look a lot different -- his hair's more blond, his face a little softer -- but his eyes have changed completely. I mean, maybe it's just the pictures, but I flip back to earlier ones of Brian and I'd swear there's a change. They're just as blue, but in the earlier shots, Brian looks right at the camera, open and direct; later, not so much, and when he smiles, it's harder, more distant. 

I close the album up and kneel, reach out and stroke my hand through his hair. Even sleeping, he turns his head into it a little, but it only takes a second for him to wake up, jerk a little, then smile at me. "Dom. Oh, shit, sorry," he says, and rolls to sit up. "I didn't mean to fall asleep." 

He probably needed it. "I just got here," I tell him, hold up the album. "Good memories?" 

He smiles and takes it, nods. "Yeah. Mostly. Mrs. Pearce brought it by." He flips it open to an early page. Looks like a cookout, maybe a birthday. "That's Rome." I look, get off the floor and sit next to him. He flips to the back, more recent, shows me a picture I'd already looked at. 

"You two look like you were cruising for trouble," I tell him. I'd know. I've got a picture of me and Vince that's pretty damn similar. 

"We probably were," he says, chuckling. 

"Talked to him yet?" 

Brian closes the album and shakes his head. "No. I don't know that I will." 

I want to ask, I really do. At the same time, well, I can hear Mia reminding me that I can't make him tell me things he doesn't want to. And maybe it's not so important that I know why. I reach up and rub his shoulder instead. "Okay." 

Now he looks embarrassed, ducks his head. "He got arrested for selling stolen goods three years ago. Just before I left to go to the LAPD," he says. His voice is kind of flat, maybe a little husky. Sleep or something else, I can't tell. "It was a sting. I didn't find out about it until it was over. He did three years in Chino, got out just before you went in, still has two years of probation. House arrest. They've got him low-jacked." 

Which maybe explains why Roman hasn't shown, but not why they aren't talking. "Three and two for fencing?" I say. "That's pretty steep." 

"Got tied back into a drug deal. Rome wasn't part of that, had no idea, but he got caught up in it." 

"He's mad at you." 

Brian nods. "He thinks I could have done something, warned him maybe. If I'd known, I probably would have, but -- I didn't. I didn't know and there wasn't anything I could do. I was writing traffic tickets on Main Street. I couldn't help him. And it was so stupid, just a one-time thing." 

I rub at his back, say, "Give it time" because I don't know what else to say. He would've helped if he could have. He and Roman have been friends forever. I felt the same way when Vince was trapped on that fucking truck. Helpless. I couldn't reach him, couldn't do a damn thing for him. 

"Yeah," he says, and taps my knee with his fist. Stops, grins at me and leans in. Could be the start of something good, I think, but he pulls back from the kiss after a second. "You hungry?" 

For food. I am, actually. "I'm sure we have a lot of choices." 

"We do," he says, and gets up, dumps the album on the dresser. "Mom says she feels bad for going out when there's so much stuff here." He leads the way to the kitchen. 

Lots of food in the fridge, and we could have a bake sale with all the cakes and cookies lined up on the counter. 

Brian's not much more familiar with this kitchen than I am and we do some dancing around before we've both got plates of food and beers. I'm ready to eat in the kitchen, but Brian nudges me outside. He doesn't turn the lights on, so we just have the spill from the house. The pool is dark, and he stops, looks up. 

I follow his gaze. Holy shit. I've seen stars before, but never so many, never in a night sky so dark that they look solid. There's a faint bleed from town, but, seriously, you don't get skies like this in LA. And it's a little cooler now that the sun has gone down. 

He's right behind me. "Maybe tomorrow night, we can drive out of town a little. Out on Mojave Road. If I ever get a convertible, this will be why," he says. 

I can understand that. After a few minutes, I pull my eyes away and sit down at the patio table. He follows suit and we eat in silence for a while. 

"You talk to the lawyers?" I ask him when we're nearly done. 

He nods. "Have to meet them again tomorrow, sign some stuff so mom can sort out the estate." 

"Your mom?" I ask him. "I thought you --" 

"Advance health care directive, durable power of attorney for health care. He never changed his will." Brian takes the last bites of his food. "She's thinking about coming back," he adds quietly. 

"The house is paid for, right?" I ask, edging into this carefully because I can't get a read on Brian. 

"Yep. It's hers and I'm okay, Dom," he says, adding the last on quickly. "Her getting the house, coming back." 

I have to take that as he says it. He'll be okay with it. I'm not sure I'm okay with it but I don't get a say. "Should I ask why?" 

"She's got friends here." 

She's got friends in Boston, too, I'm sure. I finish off my beer and get up. "You want another one?" I ask him. 

"Yeah," he says, studying me. "She's been saving money to buy a house up there and it's going to take a couple of months for her to make the move, give notice at work, all that. She said she'd sell the house, split it with us, but that seems kind of -- stupid, don't you think?" he asks me. "Give up a house so she can buy one and have to pay a mortgage all over again?" 

I don't know what he expects me to say. The money would be Brian's, not mine. "However you two work it out," I say finally. "It's not my call, Bri." 

"Yeah, it is. Partly," and he gets up, too. "You get a say, Dom. She told me that, to talk it over with you. But she didn't need to." 

He puts his hands on my waist, puts us even so I have to look up a fraction. It's too dark out here for me to see his face clearly. "I don't need this house, but it would be kind of nice to be able to come use the pool." 

Which means he'd have to visit his mother. Would have to want to. "You could probably get a house in LA with a pool," I point out to him. "You know. With enough money." 

"Yeah, but not with skies like these. Not that I need them every night, but it's kind of nice to know they're here, you know, if we want them." 

I wrap my hands around his hips, pull him closer. "You said nobody vacations in Barstow." 

I can see his teeth, grinning and white. "We could start a trend." 

Yeah, that's us. Trendsetters. 

"There will be some money. Not a lot but -- might cut the tab down for you with the state," he says. It takes a minute for that to sink in. 

"Oh no. No. Bri --" I'm shaking my head. "Brian, that's got nothing to do with you. What I owe, that's my deal, my fuck-up." 

His hands come up to my face, thumbs moving along my jaw like he can stroke the tension away. "So? This is mine, this crap here, right now. Hasn't kept you from diving in head first." 

"It's not the same." 

"The hell it isn't," Brian says, and I think I'm glad I can't see his eyes very clearly, just a gleam. Because if I could, they'd be Superman eyes, cutting right through me. "Dom, whatever I get, I don't need it. It's all gravy. I mean, we can push a little out, maybe do some mods or upgrades to the cars, maybe take a long weekend somewhere, but day to day, month to month, what? We gonna pay rent up in advance? What I've got," and he drops his hands to my shoulders. "You're still going to be paying for years. All this would do is make it a few years less." 

I can't tell him yes. I don't even know how much we're talking about here, but I do know there's more than half a mil on the books, ten percent of the take from the hijackings. Street value. The state will be garnishing my wages until I retire. Checking my books. Reports filed quarterly. Part of the deal for getting so little time inside. A fucking long probation and reparations and a probation officer who calls me if I'm even one minute late for a check-in. 

"Just tell me you'll think about it, okay?" he says. I can agree to that. I don't like it, but I nod. He nods too, lets me go. "I'll get more beer." 

He slips away from me, leaves me standing in the dark. I'm pretty sure my personal financial problems didn't come up in the conversation between Brian and Pamela. She doesn't know anything about it, about what happened, how close she came to maybe having to come out here a whole lot sooner to bury her son instead of her husband. 

Brian told me once that the what ifs would kill me. He's right. I owe him my life, my sister's life, Vince's life. My freedom. I could pay him back a few thousand dollars, but I'll never be able to pay off what's between us already. 

Mia said I'm happier than she's ever seen and I know it's true. I can see Brian through the kitchen window, and I gotta wonder if he's happier, except it's kind of a no-brainer, I think. But I got nothing to compare it with; I've never seen him any way but how he is now. 

And of course he isn't too happy right this second, dealing with all this, but usually, back in LA, Brian laughs and smiles, digs into cars and hangs out with our friends and bitches about his job, teases me about cooking, cleaning, whose turn is it to do laundry. And he's never too tired or cranky to make out on the couch or wear me out in bed. 

I'm back to imagining if things were reversed, trying to find my way around this, through it. We paid for Jesse's funeral, Mia and me. Mia handled the details, but it was our money, our need to do right by him. Granted, there was no one to say no, don't, either. 

He comes back out, beers in hand and more in a small cooler, a couple of bath towels under his arm. He hands me one of the open beers, and strips off his clothes. 

"Brian --" I'm warning him. I'm also staring at him, all shadows and pale skin. "What if your mom --" 

I stop there, 'cause he's grinning at me. "Pulled the drapes. Lights are off. Left her a note. Dom, I know you're not shy." 

I set my beer down and grab him. Kiss him. "I'm not. It just doesn't feel...respectful." 

Brian relaxes against me, all warm bare skin, licks my neck. "He wouldn't mind. Fence is high and my dad, well," he grins again, kisses me. "I don't think I got my first swimsuit until I was about nine. Child of the sixties, man. Both of them." 

"This isn't exactly a commune," I say when he steps back, but I'm pulling my shirt off, kicking off my shoes. 

"We'd need more people." Smart ass. 

Hot. Cold. I'm losing track. Brian grabs the towels and drops them at the edge of the pool, then takes a low dive into it. I can hardly see him, just a darker shadow against dark water. He surfaces at the far end, flips around like an otter and heads back. 

I shuck off my pants, then take a deep breath and push off my underwear. I'm just wading in at the shallow end when he comes up, stands there with water sheeting off him, waiting for me. The water's cool but not cold. It feels good, but it's Brian's hands and mouth that lead me deeper, until the water's well past my waist and I'm not worried about being naked anymore -- at least, worried isn't exactly what I'm feeling. 

Then he grins at me and pushes back, ducks under the water. 

I don't even see him coming, don't realize what he's doing until he knocks my legs out from under me, dunks me under. 

Fucker. 

He comes up laughing and the fight's on. It's like playing touch football, or tag, or hell, I don't know. He's fast, but even in the water, I've got some weight on him, so unless he catches me just right, dumping me isn't as easy the second time. I manage to get him once, come up under him and just toss him, head over ass into the water. 

The hide and seek eventually turns into something more like wrestling, which, honestly, really doesn't make me want to drown him. 

I've never kissed anyone underwater before. Not as easy as it seems. By the time we surface, I'm wondering if there's waterproof lube. Then I don't care. I've got Brian pressed against the side of the pool, arms outstretched against the tiles. Water makes everything move a little differently, makes everything sound a little hollow, from the gurgling of the pump to the gasping noise Brian's making. I can get his hips up without having to worry about holding the weight of his legs over my arms. The only thing I'm worried about is him giving himself a concussion if his head hits the side of the pool too hard. 

He pushes down, almost twists out of my arms and grabs for the rolled towels and pulls something out. 

"You dog," I tell him, chuckling when he slaps a bottle in my hand. 

"Waterproof sunscreen," he says and I can hear the grin in his voice see his teeth flash. I crowd him up against the side of the pool again. "Well, aren't you the good little Boy Scout," I say, opening the bottle. It's slick and oily feeling, hardly any smell. 

Brian is not that patient. He gets a handful, reaches under the water and works me until I'm jerking in his hand, then spills more into his hand before setting it aside. He sinks down in the water some. I know what he's doing and I follow his hand, his fingers, with my own. Both of us working him looser makes his breath hitch. He kisses me, then bites at my neck, licks me, his whole body moving on my fingers. I can't even see him, really, but just helping him grease himself up makes me bite my lip and grab myself before I come and mess up his excellent plan. 

Waterproof or not, I'm not nearly as slick as I want to be and neither is Brian, but it's enough, just enough to get me past his hole with only a small hiss from him. Not that it stops us or even slows us down. The water holds Brian up enough that I can push into him as fast as both of us can stand; makes his back arch, his shoulders and hips flex. Lube or no, it's easier to move in the water, feels different and strange and incredible, as though there's no gravity at all. Even with my feet firmly on the pool bottom, I feel like I'm half floating, like Brian weighs nothing. 

"Oh, yeah," Brian says, almost lying flat on the water, with only his shoulders out, hands and arms stretched on the tiles and giving us just the leverage we need. 

I take half a second to think about what would happen if Pamela came home and found me fucking her son outdoors in front of God and everybody, but then I don't care, wouldn't stop if she was standing there watching. Brian's dick is poking above the water and I grab it, hear the water slapping the side of the pool as I thrust in harder and faster and he pushes back to meet me. Water aerobics have got nothing on this. 

When he comes, I actually wonder for a second if the filters can handle it, but then I forget all about that, because I'm not far behind him. I reach out to grip the pool edge, and Brian's still holding on, panting, eyes closed, my dick inside him holding him up, no strain. Christ, now I want a pool. Brian stretches, flexes his back and I catch his hips to help ease him off me. Pulling out almost sets me off again, but then he gets his arms around me, both of us breathing fast and hard, trying not to just sink under the water. 

"I like this pool," I tell him when I can actually form coherent sentences again. 

He grins. "Yeah. Me too," he says, and sucks on my tongue for a second or two, then leans back. 

"So, you think about it?" he asks, and I have to shift gears pretty damn fast, because money, death, reparations, and the state of California's budget deficit were not exactly at the top of my list of things to think about for the last twenty minutes or so. 

What comes out is, "What, this was supposed to convince me?" 

I'm kidding, but Brian jerks back like I've stabbed him. "No, Dom. Generally when there's money and fucking going on, it works the other way." 

Then he's gone. Levering himself out of the pool so fast I get a face full of water and almost a foot in my mouth. His this time. 

_Damn it._ I haul myself out of the pool too, grab a towel. Brian skips the towels and goes right to his jeans, pulling them on without drying off. I don't have time to do anything but get to him and grab his arm. "That is not what I meant and you damn well know it. What the fuck is wrong with you?" 

He pulls away. "Nothing. I don't know." He's serious and angry. "Why is it different? Why won't you let me do this?" 

"Because --" Shit. I wrap the towel around my hips. "Brian...I don't care if you take the money. If your mom wants to move back here, fine. That's between her and you. Whatever your father left you, whatever you decide or she decides or the fucking state of California decides is fair, great. But you're right. We don't need it. Reparations or not, I hold up my end. I've got two businesses and half of what's in Mia's name is mine. So sock it away. Save it, hold onto it until it's something you need, we need. Whatever, but -- if it's not gonna make that much difference, then why? You don't owe the state a damn thing. This is...Christ, Brian, of all people don't you think I owe a _little_ for what I did? For what we did?" 

His jaw's working and he puts his hands on his hips. "You paid. You spent six months in that fucking place. They got their shit back, most of it. They nailed a whole drug operation that nobody could take out before. You made that bust for them, Dom. Not me, not Tanner, Not Bilkins. You. And here. With me, with this shit -- you're part of it. Whether I wanted you to be or not. You've been here, every step, every time." His jaw clamps shut and I really wish I could see him better. I take a step in and he takes a step back. 

I want to point out to him that nearly _dying_ because of me is not quite the same as being here for his father's death. Except for Brian it is. It's not a matter of degrees, not for him. 

"Are we in this together or not?" he asks. His voice is low, but I can hear the break behind it. This is what it comes down to. I think I knew that. I do know that. I've been trying to tell him that, except it's not entirely true. Not for me. Not if I'm keeping score. 

I have been. I don't think I can stop it. I want to ask him how much, how much money are we talking about, but it doesn't matter. It can't matter. 

All or nothing. Christ. I'm not sure I can do this. 

I've been quiet too long, because Brian takes another step back, lifts his chin. "Fine. Go home, Dom." 

"No. _Damn_ it." He almost slips away, body tense, arms up. We're gonna end up really fighting in about two seconds and somebody's gonna get hurt. "Brian, give me...give me ten seconds to think through this. Please," I say. I've got one hand wrapped around his arm, the other I've got in his face pointing at him. "We are in this together," I say, surprising myself by meaning it, but, Jesus, he can make this hard. "Is this some kind of test, Bri?" I ask him. "Some initiation, something I have to prove? That I can take and give?" 

"No," he snarls out, finally does jerk away, pushes his hands through his hair. "But if I've got it why can't I give it to you?" He's pumping up the volume a bit. "You make a living, I make a living. It all goes the same place, is part of the same thing. Right? What families do. You're as much a part of this as --" he takes a deep breath, but it doesn't come out steady. 

Aw, Brian. I have to close the distance between us again. "Brian, listen to me. Right now, right this second -- this is not something we have to decide." He tries to pull away again and I swear for a few seconds, I know, I _see_ exactly how he was at fifteen, all sharp edges. "Not because I don't want to take it," I say, and I want to pick my words carefully but I'm not sure Brian's going to give me time to do it. "Listen to me. If we decide -- _we_ decide -- that it works out best for us in the long run, then okay. The _long run_ , Brian. Not this week or this month or this year, but five years or ten years from now or, Jesus, when we retire to Baja or something." 

He's listening, not just pulling away, but he's still knotted up with anger and frustration and maybe fear. Even so, I've got his attention. 

"Brian. Whatever this is about, whatever it is you're doing or think you're doing -- I'm still trying to catch up here." I get closer, still trying to see his face. Where's the full moon when you need it? "So, what happened today? What got this started?" Because something had to set him off. I get a hand around the back of his neck and he swallows, wraps his hand around my wrist -- holding on, not pushing away. 

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I don't mean to be...it wasn't any one thing. Just talking, you know? I forget sometimes. What I do for a living, you know? And today -- the people here, the lawyer, talking about what people do, you know? When something happens?" 

When, not if. There's a rock in my stomach. I don't think about this either. Not often. Not if I can help it. 

"Okay. I get it," I say. I'm pretty sure I get it, anyway.. "But you're all over the map, man. I'm not going anywhere, Bri. And neither are you, not tonight. So, this -- we do not need to decide this tonight. Or this weekend. Just, now -- here. We were good, we were great, but right now, you're mad at me for something I don't understand." 

"I'm not mad." 

"'Dom, go home,' is not mad?" 

He makes a sound, halfway between a groan and a grunt, leans his forehead against mine. "No, just...pretty damn juvenile. Jesus, this place...I thought I was done with it. Him. Her. Never look back. No regrets." 

I squeeze his neck. The only way to do that is to feel nothing, but Brian's better at that than most, or he was. "You need to cut yourself some slack, man. And the rest of us, too." I don't know what it is -- grief, maybe? -- that he doesn't want to feel, but he doesn't know what to do about it and it's coming out weird. 

He nods and turns away. I'm just reaching for my pants when the lights come on. Shit. All but blinds me and I hear the glass door slide back. 

"Mom, cut the lights," Brian says. "We're blind out here." 

"Oh, sorry. Uh..." the lights go out and I'm still blind. I don't dare move or I'm going to trip over something, and wouldn't Pamela get a show then? "I'll just, um. Nice legs, Dominic." 

That sets Brian off and I swear Pamela's laughing, too. So at least she didn't hear us fighting. "Thank you, Pamela," I call out, hear her close the door again. I close my eyes for a second before looking down. Yeah. Wet towel. Nothing left to the imagination. Brian's fastening his jeans. I'm thinking Pamela has a pretty good idea what was going on. 

Great. Fuck it. I pull the towel off and put my pants on. Pop the cooler and grab a beer. I'm tempted to raid Earl's liquor cabinet. 

"Be easier if you just slugged me when I get stupid," Brian says, getting a beer of his own. 

It's crossed my mind, but I shake my head. "Just remember that I'm cutting you a _huge_ amount of slack right now. You don't always get to be this nuts," I tell him. "Do you want her here? This close?" 

"I don't know. It's worked so far like it is, but," he settles back in a chair. "I never hated her, Dom. I know she thinks I did, but that was never it." 

"I know. Bri, you're the one who told me that you make your choices and move forward. Make this one, because she doesn't have the right," I say. He stares at me. "She doesn't think she does. I'm not saying you have to start over, I'm just asking you if having her this close, is it worth anything to you?" 

He chews on his lip like he hadn't thought of it that way. "Yeah. Maybe. There's this thing with the job, too. I don't want her to have to go through it all again. You either." 

That one's gonna keep me up tonight. I just know it. "Not your choice. Not entirely. I know what you do for a living, Bri. And I know how you do it, full out." Nothing held back. "I'm betting your mother does, too. It wasn't your dad being a cop that messed up your family. It was two punks who panicked, and it was also your dad's shit, whatever that was. This was his choice." 

"God, I wish I knew why." 

He probably never will, not unless Earl left some kind of secret diary. Bits and pieces, maybe. Earl not able to live up to his picture of himself. 

"Yeah. But it wasn't you, Brian." 

He nods, gets up, starts pacing. Full of energy, adrenaline. I'm too tired to watch him. 

"Seriously, Dom. I'm sorry. I just. I'm not making any sense. I know. I'll get my shit together, I promise, and if I don't, I swear I won't hold it against you if you want to deck me." 

I move up close to him. "I'll keep it in mind," I tell him, grab his beer. Take a long drink. 

He really is too close to the pool. And way too trusting. He never even sees it coming. 

I watch him just long enough to make sure he's okay, to grin at him when he comes up sputtering. "Just putting one in the bank. Consider yourself decked in advance." 

I'm still laughing when Pamela comes out to make sure we're okay. 

* * *

My tossing Brian into the pool triggers a free-for-all. Pamela won't let him into the house dripping wet and goes to get him a towel while he does his best to retaliate. 

Did I mention I can be stubborn? He can't even get me to the edge of the pool, but he ends up soaked again, only Pamela is too close, gets splashed. 

She has an unfair advantage, is all I'm saying. And since Brian is already in the pool, I'm the easier target. I mean, how much of a fight can I put up? She's his mother. 

After she's done dunking me, she tosses us both towels and tells us to leave our pants on the chairs. Come noon they'll be dry. 

Laughter can change a whole house, you know? 

Once we're dry, we settle down, more or less. Pamela spends some time on the phone talking to her sister. I can't figure out if she's trying to convince her to come for the funeral or to stay home. There's apparently more family than just her sister, a brother or two, but it doesn't sound like they're that close. 

And from Earl's side? Not a word. No brothers or sisters, parents, aunts or uncles call. I don't ask. I'm starting to believe that in Brian's family there really are doors that are better left closed. Maybe even nailed shut. Doesn't seem to stop me from wanting to pry them open anyway though. 

I'm half asleep on the sofa by ten; Brian wakes me enough to get me to bed. The TV is off, Pamela is shutting off lights and locking up. She kisses us both good-night, pats my cheek. I think I've been adopted. 

I also think Brian would like to make up for our little head-to-head earlier, but he doesn't do much more than steer me in the right direction. I'm asleep before the light goes off. And worrying about Brian doesn't even bring me bad dreams. 

When I wake up the next morning, he's not there. It's after ten and if I know Brian, he's been up since dawn. I get up to shower and hear people talking quietly. 

Brian's dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, talking to a couple of uniform cops. It all looks copacetic when I wander in. 

It's the two officers in charge of the honor guard. Okay, so I have problems with cops -- some cops. Every group's got assholes, and if I think maybe cops are more likely to be assholes than, say, mechanics, well, I don't let it affect the way I act. These two guys aren't jerks, though; they're young -- younger than Brian, fresh out of the Academy, I'm guessing -- and they want to do right. To them, Earl's a fellow officer who was disabled in the line of duty. It's personal, even though they didn't know him. 

I don't have much to say, but I do realize that Brian asking me to be a pallbearer says a lot more than I realized. Us and four uniformed cops. It's not how it's generally done. Usually it's one or the other, cops or civilians. They're okay with it -- I mean, what are they going to say, no? 

Brian's quieter when they leave; I'm still getting used to these weird bouts of stillness. "I'm sorry about last night," he says once I've had time to grab coffee and something for breakfast that isn't pure sugar. 

"It's okay," I tell him, and it is, but I don't really want to get into that again. Change of topic. "Does your dad not have any family?" I ask him. 

He shakes his head. "No one that we could find. Mom tried. His parents are both dead. I don't remember my grandmother, his mom, at all. His dad died when I was about eight. I met him a few times, but I don't really remember him. There's some cousins, but," he shrugs. "Pretty much it was just him and mom and me. Mom's family is a little more...I mean, they're pretty cool, from what I remember. She's the youngest. I've got cousins and stuff, but Boston was pretty far to visit, especially with Dad's job. You know what it's like, trying to get time off. Aunt Barbara is probably the closest, but, uh, I don't think they were too -- Dad didn't exactly leave a last good impression. On anybody." 

I want to say that he did, that Brian's a pretty good last impression, but he's not looking for compliments or even for me to make him feel better, I don't think. "I haven't done a great job of keeping in touch with my parents' families either," I offer instead. "I think Mia still exchanges Christmas cards with some of them, and we sent a wedding gift or baby gift or something a couple of years ago." 

"Nobody close?" 

"Nah, not really. There's family on the east coast. My grandfather, Papa Toretto," and now I'm smiling, "he was like, really old even when I was born. He and Nonna...came out here in the early thirties, I guess. To open the market. My uncles --" I have to think about it. I should ask Mia. "One of them is up in Washington state, I think. The other is in Chicago." 

"How did your folks meet?" Brian asks me, and he's got that look on his face; he really wants to know. 

"My dad was in the Navy for a couple of years. He met her in Jacksonville when he was stationed there. Love at first sight." That was the story they told, anyway. "She was second-generation, you know? Translating for her folks." 

"You ever hear from them?" 

"Mia might," I say, spreading my hands on the table, studying them. "I...after Dad died, after Lompoc. I didn't want to deal with them, anything. I was no joy to be around for a couple of years." Looking back on it, it's wonder Mia didn't brain me with something. She and Letty both came close a couple of times. "I didn't know where I was going," I say. "Couldn't get back to where I'd been." Pissed off and bored, but mostly just mad. 

"And now?" Brian asks, watching me like maybe I know something he doesn't. 

"Still don't. But I'm enjoying the road," I tell him. It's good to see him smile. 

"Yeah, me too." He holds my gaze for a few seconds before looking away. Who says romance is dead? 

Brian looks like he wants to say something else -- maybe thank me or apologize again, neither of which I need. Maybe it says something about us that we both seem to say exactly what we feel when we're pissed off but the rest of the time, it's just easier to show it. 

He clears his throat, leans back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. "Mom went to the funeral home. Set up the book, the room," he says. "Six to eight if you want to go. We can grab a late dinner." 

That's not what he wanted to say but I let it slide even though the whole visitation thing is not my favorite thing to think about. Open caskets, viewings -- I think I've seen enough dead people to last me awhile, like forever. "You going to be okay?" I ask him. 

"Some people need it. To say goodbye," he says and gets up, restless. "I wish you'd known him. Back then." 

"I'm getting a pretty good idea of what he was like," I say softly. It's true. Not just Earl, but all of them. He looks a question at me, and I try to answer. "Your mom -- she's good people, Bri. After all this, everything he put her through, you through...had to be something there when they met, something that kept her with him. The guy I met wasn't the guy she married. But she still remembers him, that man. That says a lot. And he's got good friends." 

He smiles at that, nods a little, then grins. "What? Not going to say what a sterling example of excellent child-rearing I turned out to be?" he asks me. 

Not when he's being a pain in the ass. I get up, close in on him. "You have been nothing but trouble since the moment I met you," I tell him. His grin gets wider. "Sleeping with my sister, picking a fight with my best friend, wrecking _my_ car," and I'm almost wondering if I'm not pushing this too far, but then he starts laughing. Looking back on all the crap from the past year, laughing about it -- that tells me this will work out, too. Just another nasty bump in the road. 

"Not to mention turning you queer," he points out. 

"Yeah. That too." I can't keep the smile off my face now. I start backing him up against the kitchen counter. "You've got a lot to answer for, O'Conner. And you know what they say about payback." 

No rushing, just a slow kiss that would've turned into a lot more, but right then we hear Pamela's car in the driveway. 

When she comes in, we're standing a little too close, I guess, or maybe I'm weirded out by the whole the-guy-who-lived-in-this-house-died-day-before-yesterday thing. I can't seem to keep my hands off his son, and I sort of feel like I should. Not that Brian is showing any restraint. 

But Pamela's got a look on her face like she's not too thrilled, maybe disturbed. She hides it pretty well, but something's wrong. 

She puts her stuff down and we move out of her way so she can heat water for tea or something. "We should get over there about a half hour before," she says, and Brian hauls himself up on the counter, out of her way. I grab a soda and sit at the table. 

"Okay. Anything else we need to be doing?" Brian asks her. Looks like he's pretty much stepped back and let her handle this. "Oh, the honor guard guys came by -- Benson and Cole. After the funeral, Dom and I will ride over with them." 

"Are you sure--" 

"I'm sure," Brian says. Pamela shuts up, goes back to fixing tea. I don't think Brian sounds curt, let alone rude, but Pamela reads it as a cut, like she doesn't have the right to question him. Maybe she doesn't. But if she wants to be here for him like she says, she's going to have to get over this. He's not the walking on eggshells type. 

"All right," she says. "I'm going to try to find a dress. I should have done it yesterday, but.” And she drops the sentence. “If you and Dom will leave me your shirts, I'll iron them. " 

"You don't --" Brian starts. 

"I'll get them," I say, getting up. "Thank you." I shoot a look at Brian. 

He catches it, drops his head. "You know, there's a box of your stuff up in the attic," he's saying as I'm heading to our room. I miss the rest of it, and when I come back Brian's gone. 

"He went out to the garage to get in the attic. You can just leave them there," she says, pointing to one of the kitchen chairs. "Although I don't know that I could fit in anything that I left behind." 

"You weren't prepared for this," I say, sitting down again. 

"For Earl dying?" She sips her tea. "No. I mean, I suppose I knew it was a possibility. But no. Too young, too...stubborn." She smiles a little. "I kind of had this place, him, fixed forever in my mind. I should have expected it to be different. Should've known." She wipes her eyes. "He looked a lot older than he is. Was. But -- still the same." 

"I should help Brian," I say. I'm being a coward, but I don't know what to say to her. I didn't know the man she remembers. I only know the drunk who ragged on Brian for letting his partner get killed, which isn't even what happened. I get halfway to the door when she stops me. 

"Dominic, I should ask Brian, I know, but -- the scar on his back. That's a --" 

I wait. I've still got my back to her. She'd've seen it last night by the pool; no way to miss it, I don't think, even though I mostly don't see it anymore. 

"Bullet," I finally say, and turn around. 

She's about as pale as she can be and she looks like she's going to fall over. "He's fine. Hardly bothers him anymore," I tell her. 

"Did Earl know?" 

I have no idea. I shrug. "I don't know if anyone called him." 

"It happened on the job." 

More or less. I want to tell her and I don't know why. But Brian hasn't; no one did. It's not like I'm worried what Pamela's going to think of me -- great if she likes me, but I've lived my whole life without knowing she existed, so it's not like she's going to have an effect now. On me, anyway. 

"He was protecting my sister," I say. "He took it for her." For me. Took a shitload more than just a bullet. 

"If I ask him --" 

"Do you really want to know, Pamela?" I ask her, and I'm serious. "He's _fine_ ," I add. 

She doesn't say anything. I head into the garage. I feel like I've just dodged a bullet myself. It's not so much that I'm worried what Pamela thinks of me, but the whole story? If she makes trouble about that -- and I honestly don't know if she would -- she could seriously screw up things with Brian. Maybe I'm being arrogant as hell to think Brian would choose me over his mother. 

Except he already has. He's real around me. All she sees from him is anger. I get to see the whole picture: the anger, the pain, what's underneath. She might be catching glimpses of that, Maybe she understands it, better than I give her credit for, and is just more like Brian than I realize. Not letting it show. 

In the garage, all I see is Brian's legs dangling from a hole in the ceiling. There's a couple of boxes on the floor, a ladder. "Yo, Bri? Anything interesting? 

"I think I found Jimmy Hoffa," he calls back, his voice muffled. "Jesus. I forgot all this shit was up here." He leans down as I come up the ladder. His face is red and he's already sweating. The garage is hot; that crawlspace has to be stifling, no matter how much insulation they packed in up there. He hands me a box. Small but heavy. Pictures, or they were; they might all be melted together. I hit the floor and another box drops behind me with a "whumpf." Big but not heavy. I pop it. Clothes, packed in clear plastic bags. 

Brian follows it down, ignoring the ladder to let himself drop from the hole to the floor. Yup, that shoulder is fine now. Twinges sometimes, not quite like it was before he got shot, but nothing that stops him from doing anything. He's got dust on him, dirt, little bits of insulation on his shirt and in his hair. He goes to the door. "Mom? You want to come see if you want any of this?" 

The pictures aren't in bad shape, just a little faded, some of them. The top ones are loose, but beneath them are framed pictures -- all the ones missing from the living room. 

"Oh, wow. I thought we tossed those," Brian says, and he's down on his knees digging into the box. Wipes his face with his arm and gets insulation there. "Oh, man, I need a shower." Starts pulling his shirt off. 

I see Pamela come in, and there's a delay in my brain, watching her watch him. His back is to her now, and I know she and I are both remembering what we just talked about. I can't stop it, don't even try to stop him. Brian gets his shirt off and wipes his hands and face on it, and then he's back to digging in the box, pulling out pictures of his mother, his father, the three of them. She can't see his face, but I can. 

This is all good to Brian. These memories, these reminders. But Pamela is staring at his back, hand to her mouth. 

Brian holds up a picture for me to see. He's really young, and there's no mistaking Disneyland. "I got _so sick_ on the teacups." He's laughing. 

"I think it was the cotton candy and snow cone you had before," Pamela says. She's back in control, squats down beside him. Pulls more pictures out. 

I play audience. Happy to do it, because the memories in this box? All good. It's great -- I get Pamela tattling on Brian, Brian laughing, both of them jumping into each other's sentences and finishing each other's stories. 

In the bottom of the box are a couple of really nicely framed pictures, including one of Pamela and Earl when they got married. Another that has to be, like, the first picture ever taken of Brian. 

"Not a bad-looking couple," I tell her. It's no lie. Earl looked more like Brian, or Brian like him, when he was in his twenties. Pamela looks like she stepped off the cover of some bridal magazine. In the here and now, though, Pamela is still holding the baby picture, and she lets her other hand rest on Brian's back. 

"You," she says, her eyes crinkling up in a smile, and she gives him a little shove. "The day we left the hospital, you cried until we got you in the car and started driving. You went right to sleep. When you'd get fussy, we used to take long drives. Quieted you right down." 

"Figures," I say. She looks at me. 

"Can I have this?" Brian asks her, taking the wedding picture back. Pamela's surprised. So am I. "I don't have many pictures. None of you and Dad together." 

Maybe Pamela has another copy. I don't think it matters. "Yeah. You can have it," she says, rubbing his back right over the scar. "But I get this one." 

"You can _have_ that one. I look like a lizard," he says, looking at the baby picture. "There's clothes and stuff in the other box." 

Pamela gets up and checks. Brian's not watching her. He's totally oblivious, and that might be a good thing right now. "Oh, Brian, this can all go to Goodwill, if they'll even take it," she says. She holds up a couple of polyester pantsuits and makes an embarrassed face. "I did think, at the time, that I was the best-dressed woman in Barstow," she says. 

"You probably were." I grin at her. "Which is pretty scary." 

Brian sits beside me, leaning back on his hands, as Pamela pulls out more. They really are awful, so disco they might be back in style, even. Pamela says she and Earl used to burn up the dance floor, and she doesn't even sound too sad about it. Another life, another time. I can remember my parents dancing in the backyard, in the living room. Hard to think of your parents being young. 

Pamela pulls out a black dress, really simple, not much dated. She holds it up to her nose, then up to herself. 

"That's a classic, mom," Brian says. 

"Seems okay. I think I got this for our fifth wedding anniversary," she says. "We dropped you off with Elaine. She swears that's when you and Roman decided to be friends." 

Brian's quiet for a second, thinking, then rolls his eyes. "Mom, Roman was like six months old." 

"You were fascinated." 

"I wasn't even walking. Think it still fits?" 

"Maybe. I liked this dress. I'll see. It'll need to be cleaned." 

"There's an hour place downtown," Brian says, gets to his feet. 

She looks at the dress again. "I'll try. You should get a shower before the insulation makes you break out in hives," she says, and she's gone. 

We bring a couple of the boxes into the house: the pictures, a box of papers Brian found. The rest we shove against the wall of the garage. 

Brian's heading for the bathroom when Pamela comes back out with the dress on. "It's a little tight, but it looks like I could let it out some," she says. 

It's a little too small in the hips, but it doesn't look bad. Simple dress, short sleeves and an open neck. 

Brian actually walks around her. "It looks good, Mom. We can run it down to the cleaners." 

Pamela looks surprised and pleased. "Okay. You get your shower. It won't take me long to pull the seams," she says, and disappears again. 

I wash my hands and arms in the kitchen sink; I'm finishing up when Pamela comes back out in her jeans and a loose shirt. She hunts for a sharp knife and settles into a kitchen chair, flipping the dress inside out to pull stitches. I get a glass of water, look out the kitchen window at the pool. 

The silence is uncomfortable. Pamela wants to ask, but she doesn't really want to know, and I won't say anything unless she asks. "What do you think of me moving back here? I'm assuming Brian told you I was thinking about it." She hardly glances at me. 

"I've got no problem with it. If that's what you want," I tell her. 

"I don't know what I want," she says after a moment, and she's going to tear out more than just stitches if she doesn't take it easy with that knife. 

"Then deciding right now probably isn't such a great idea." 

"Would it make any difference, do you think?" 

To what? Brian? "I don't know. I guess it depends on why you want to do it." 

"I would think that would be obvious." She finishes one side, checks it, flips the dress right side in again, looks at the fabric, and starts over on the other side. 

It's not, actually. Okay, so she wants to be closer to Brian, but I don't know what she expects from that. 

"You think it's a bad idea," she says finally. 

Jesus. "Pamela, I've given a total of ten minutes of thought. But I gotta tell you, I don't think the problem is distance. What do you want?" 

"Besides undoing the last twelve years?" She give me a tight little smile. 

"Fresh out of time machines." That gets an easier smile, but it fades after a few seconds. 

"I guess I want to know if it would make any difference at all. I don't want to come back here, make his life more complicated, ask him for something he's not ready to give...maybe doesn't want to give," she says. "He has a whole life here -- work, friends, you..." She gets a little color in her cheeks at that. I'd laugh, but that'd be mean. "I guess I wish that Brian would give me some indication. You're right, distance isn't the problem. If he would say one way or the other..." 

"Did he tell you it was a bad idea, moving back?" I know he didn't. He put it right back in her court and she doesn't quite know what to do with it. 

"No. He said whatever I wanted to do was fine." 

"He's not going to ask you, Pamela." 

"I guess that's a little much to expect," she says, stabbing at the dress again. She nicks her finger. "Damn it!" She sucks on her finger and I reach over and pull the dress and the knife out of her hands. Settle down across from her while she wraps a paper napkin around her finger. The stitches are already loose -- doesn't take much effort to finish opening the seam. "And you sew, too," which comes out with just enough attitude to make me look at her. 

"This isn't sewing." 

I finish it, set the knife aside, and pull a few loose threads. "You want to try it on again before we take it to the cleaners?" 

"I probably should." She takes it back. "This isn't fair to you, to put you in the middle, but I don't know how to talk to him." 

"You could start by --" I stop. This isn't my call. "Asking him if he'd come visit more regularly if you move back." 

"That's not what you were going to say." 

I get up, clear my throat, and get more water. 

"Dominic, you are more his family than I am." 

I can't argue that, given how Brian has been acting, but this isn't anything even close to normal, not for him. Not for me and probably not for Pamela either. I turn around and look at her, fold my arms across my chest. "Talk to him like you would anybody, Pamela. And as for coming down here," I shrug. "I'd say that if Brian's the only reason to give up your life in Boston -- your family, your friends, your job -- then you might want to think again. Because I think he'd come see you, but you're right. He's gotten on with his life." 

"And I should get on with mine?" 

"I didn't say that. But you could stop resenting that he has," I say. She doesn't like that much. It may not even be entirely true. 

"That's not fair." 

Fuck-all is, Pamela. "Maybe not. But he's not fifteen anymore and you can't undo the past, so you might want to think about if it's the kid you left or the man he is that you want to know. And maybe right now is not the best time to be making decisions like this." 

She's got a glare like Brian, only I don't find hers funny. I push off the counter and move past her. "You asked," I remind her as I head back to the bedroom to get changed. I'm _more_ than ready to get out of this house. 

* * *

Pamela sends her suit jacket along with the dress to be cleaned and after dropping it off, Brian and I stay in town to grab lunch at a place called Rosita's. It's pretty low key, but popular. We kill another hour kicking around the Mother Road Museum. It's got its share of tourist kitsch, but it's still interesting. In July, there's a classic car show or rally or something, and looking at the photos, at the displays, I'm thinking it would be worth a long weekend to come back and see, whether Pamela's here or not. 

"Maybe we could look for something that needs fixing up," Brian says while we're both ogling a beautifully restored 1950 Mercury Roadster. I'm not entirely against the idea. I've always worked on cars for speed, for style, flash, and power. Dad and I put a lot of work into the body of the old Charger but that wasn't the point. Real classics can be rebuilt for speed and power, but mostly it's all about making the machines shine for what they are, not what they can do. 

"Got an urge to cruise Rodeo Drive in a classic Model A?" I ask him and he grins. 

"Nah, if I'm going to cruise Rodeo, I'm thinking '56 Montclair," Brian says. "Two tone, aqua and cream. Sixteen valves, 260 BPH..." I'm staring at him and he's laughing. "I worked on one once -- well, watched while Mr. Guyerson did. I swear, man. I've seen one-bedroom apartments smaller than that car." 

"I used to want to live out of the back of an old Woody," I tell him as we head outside again. "Best of both worlds. Travel and a cool car." Both of us put sunglasses on outside. LA can be bright, sun is part of its charm, but when you've got a lot of sand and no clouds, even the shadows look brighter. 

"I didn't know you liked traveling," Brian says. 

I shrug. "I don't know if I would. A run down to Baja or San Diego -- haven't done much else. Seen anyplace else. You mean the rest of the world doesn't look like Southern California?" 

"No place looks like Southern California," Brian says. 

"Oh, and you're a world traveler?" Funny, we've never really talked about this. 

"Maybe not the world," he admits as we head for the car. "But some. Road trips. Once I got out, could drive. I was working, so I had some cash. Fill up the tank, pick a direction, and go. I wanted to go to new Orleans once. Took a week off. I figured two days to get there if I drove pretty much straight through, spend a couple of days there, head back. I made it as far as Denton, Texas." 

"What happened? Find a distraction? Better scenery?" 

He grins at me. "Well, yeah. I did find a distraction. But I stopped because I blew a head gasket. Took me a couple of days to fix it. Denton wasn't bad, though. Nice city. University of North Texas." 

"What were you driving?" 

"1990 Honda Accord." 

"A couple of days. For a head gasket. On a Honda. " 

"Hey, I was on vacation." He starts the engine. 

"Uh-huh. And what did the distraction look like?" 

"Five two, blonde...I think she was a history major," he says. "Drove a ‘93 Sierra. The stars are pretty spectacular in Denton, too." 

"Did she have a name?" 

"Uh, Sheryl or Sara..." 

"You can remember the car and the stars --" 

"Sheryl! It was Sheryl," he says with a grin, but his cheeks are pinking up. "You remember every girl you were ever with?" 

I can, actually. Can count them on one hand. "Haven't been that many. Anna Marie Spenser, Carla Hernandez, then Letty." Brian looks at me when I stop. Waits. I feel heat in my face that's not from the sun. It's not that I'm embarrassed or anything, it's the way Brian looks at me, smiling, but just with his eyes. I never noticed anyone do that before him, like it's something different than what he does with his mouth. "Dolores de la Cruz," I say. 

"After Letty?" 

"Uh. Kind of in the middle. She and I got in some big spit and bitch over something I don't even remember. Barely talked for almost three months. Dolores was more...a friend." Brian nods and puts the car into gear, gets us out of the parking lot. 

I know how this game is played -- I should ask. I told him once that I really didn't want to know who had taught him stuff, the stuff between us. The stuff he knows how to do, learned to do, things that drive me crazy, things that make me hard just thinking about them. But there's been others, I know, jokes about old sweethearts in town who are off raising kids. It's not hard to imagine Brian breaking hearts pretty much anywhere he went. 

Except I don't think he did. Break hearts, I mean. Not if he could help it. What happened with Mia...anyone else and I'd have beaten his face in for that, for hurting her, using her. But I know Brian didn't mean to do it. Sometimes I wonder if she's actually more angry with me than him, because it might have been something good. She thought Brian was the real thing. That what he said, he meant. 

Knowing him now, I think he did. Then. This thing between us isn't something he went looking for, and really it's not something he ever wanted. It's too big; it takes over everything. Needing this, needing me -- I'm not sure Brian's ever gonna be a hundred percent good with it. With needing anybody. 

So I didn't want to know back then, but now I wonder. Curiosity isn't a cat, it's a rabid dog, clamping down and not letting go. "So, Sheryl. Not your first." 

"No. Not the first. Helen Rabley was the first girl ever. Only girl in my shop class. Back of Mr. Thurston's '90 Altima, in the school parking lot. She was a senior," he says, flashes that grin at me. Scoring with the older women. I am so not surprised. 

First _girl_ , though. Do I even want to know? Hard to think it might have been in juvie, that maybe it wasn't what he wanted, maybe it wasn't even -- not good. Couldn't have been. I can't see Brian keeping up with the whole guy thing if he'd been _forced_ into something he didn't want. Just the thought of it makes me sick, makes me angry about something that may not even be true. 

"Helen the first ever?" I ask after a second. I guess I do want to know. I want this to go away. 

But Brian doesn't even look wary. "You mean besides checking out the guys after football practice?" The tightness in my chest eases. He's pinking up again, but he's still smiling. "I kinda knew then, though. Not that I actually wanted to do anything with those guys -- I mean, they'd have kicked my ass. But there was...a friend. Just before I went in. I don't even know what started it. Jerking off, I guess -- porn he had, his older brother had. I'd wondered, he'd wondered..." 

Brian hasn't said his name. I don't know if it's deliberate, and my brain flashes back to the pictures, the tons of pictures of him and Roman Pearce. Together, inseparable, dark and pale, black and white. Better with a friend, right? Someone who won't freak out on you, turn on you for something you can't control and didn't know you wanted. 

Only they aren't still friends, are they? Roman hasn't even called. So maybe he can't make the visit in person because of the tag he's wearing but why did he send regrets through his mother? 

"...His family moved the first year I was in San Bernardino," Brian says. 

"Not Roman?" I ask before I think it through. 

"Rome?" Brian says, and glances at me. "No. Roman?" he laughs. "We're tight, but not that tight. I mean..." He shakes his head. "Dom, that would be like you and Vince or you and _Mia_ ," he says. "Rome." He sounds completely confused and amused and he's still grinning. "Although he _was_ the first guy I ever kissed besides my dad." 

"What?" 

He's laughing again. "We were, like, eight or something. Watching some movie, some romantic, mushy, I dunno, _holiday_ thing with this big kiss. And Mrs. Pearce and my mom were bawling their eyes out and our dads were ragging on them, and Rome just --- we went to his parents' room and he digs out his mom's hat and a scarf and I don't know what. I mean, just putting on the jazz and then we practiced and came back and did the whole scene for them while they were having coffee. I thought my dad was going to have a stroke," he says. Catches himself. 

Almost. I think I tense up before he does, before I see him grip the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. 

It had to happen, right? At some point, Brian had to face this. Driving down a road at fifty-five is not my idea of the best time, though. He swallows and the Mustang revs a little, like he can outrun it. It's like watching a slow-motion wreck that starts with his eyes, blinking too fast, and moves to his mouth, grinding his teeth so hard his jaw flexes. He swallows again and the car shimmies. 

I cover his hand, pull the wheel slightly. "Pull over, Bri," I tell him. Watching him, watching the road. "Brian, pull off here." He hears me finally, sucks in a breath so sharp it's got to hurt, but he pushes the wheel to the right, steers the car onto the shoulder, kicking up dust and sand and the asshole in the car behind us leans on the horn, passing us in a streak of sound. 

I've still got my hand on Brian's, but I reach over, cut the engine; the Mustang jerks and shudders, rolls forward a foot or so. 

He's holding onto the wheel so tight it's shaking, like he really could break it, jerk it off the mount. It's like it was the first night, except I can see him, can watch him hold his breath like if he doesn't have enough oxygen nothing else will work, like it will shut down tears and feeling and pain. 

I can't get much closer with the gear shift, the console, but I can get hand around the back of his neck. He's so stiff he could be concrete, planted in that seat, never moving. His body's won the fight to breathe but not by much. It's just little gasps, then air coming out in short bursts like he's cussing. His face is red, jaw set, and his eyelashes have gone all dark and clumpy until they can't hold the tears anymore. 

He moves so fast and so suddenly, I bang my knee on the console trying to grab him. I hear the horn when Brian shoves the door open and gets out without looking, and I'm moving just as fast. The shoulder's not that deep. Any further over and we'll need a tow truck to get us out of the sand, but he's standing there, cars whizzing by him close enough to blow his hair back, less than a foot away. The door's brushing the asphalt. Another horn sounds and I swear the door gets clipped by inches. 

"Brian!" I'm out and moving, with just brains enough to come around the back of the car. I push him back, slam the door shut. He almost trips and catches himself against the car, turns around to stare past it into the desert. The sun's so hot, so high, we'll fry out here. I get up close, close enough to see sweat on his skin, to see tears hit the black finish of the car and evaporate almost as fast as they fall. The metal is as hot as an iron and Brian's leaning on it like he can't even feel it. 

I slide an arm around his chest, pull him back, pull his arms off the roof. His skin's already red. 

He's losing the fight. My own eyes are burning, and not from the glare. He wraps his fingers in my shirt like he wants me to tell him something, like he wants to tell me something: to say what he's lost, tell me who his father was, what he was. 

"It took too long," he says, gasps out. "Why did it take so long?" 

I'm expecting it and I'm still not prepared for it, for the sob that breaks the last word, for the tension in his body to just fail, like a wire's been snapped. I can't stop him and I won't leave him; we both hit the dirt, the car. The metal burns my skin enough to make me jerk back, pull Brian back. He loses his sunglasses, staggers, and I hear them crunch under his knee. 

Once the first sob breaks he can't stop the rest, and they're big, deep, shaking him, ripping through him like someone's hitting him and he doesn't have the strength to defend himself. I hold onto him as much to keep him from breaking apart as to keep him from going face first in the dirt. Pull him into my lap, against my chest, curling my fingers in his hair. I feel like I can't breathe, like I'm going to go blind from my own tears. I can hear cars slowing down over the gasps and sharp little sounds Brian's making; it's like there's glass in his throat, in his chest. He's got both hands twisted in my shirt, pulling it down painfully. 

Someone had to stop, right? It was inevitable. Brings some shade and more horns as a truck pulls over. I can't even look beyond catching a glimpse of red paint that's dulled with age and time and dust. 

"You fellas all right?" 

I pull Brian closer, like I can hide him from this old man. Keep anyone from seeing him like this. 

"Yeah, thanks," I say, looking back. I don't care what the old man sees on my face. "His father just died," I tell him. 

"Oh. Oh, I'm real sorry, son." he says, sounds sincere. "Whyn't you, uh, you need to come back some, get away from the road," he says. He squats beside us, so stiffly I'm sure I can hear his bones creak. Putting himself between us and the road. He's got shiny sunglasses and a cowboy hat shading his face and lines so deep in his skin they look like scars. "Come on, son," he says, and reaches out to pat Brian lightly on the back. 

I get a firmer grip on Brian because he doesn't seem to be able lift himself up. But I can't either. I've got my knees underneath me and no leverage. 

The old man grips my arm, puts an arm across my back. 

Somehow, we get him up. Brian finally does get his legs under him and the old man is stronger than he looks. He gives us a second, then guides us to the front of the car, away from the road. Brian's not sobbing as loud, but it's like he's blind. Maybe he is. 

The old man leaves us, but comes back in a few seconds, presses a big bottle of cold water into my hand. "You should get him out of the sun," he says, like that will help. "I'm real sorry about your daddy, boy." 

Brian presses his fingers to his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Thank you," he says, and the old man nods. He gets in his truck and a few seconds later he's gone, pulling out slowly so he doesn't kick up too much dust. 

I pop the bottle open, hand it to Brian. I have to cover his hand, make sure he doesn't drop it. Wait while he takes a long drink, then another, before I take a mouthful and swallow. 

It's like all the color's drained from his face. His eyes, the blue's washed out by sunlight or tears; I don't know how, but they look pale, red, like they hurt. He wipes at his nose with his hand, sniffs, tightens his jaw again. 

He doesn't say anything for a long time, looking down, around, up at the sky. The tension's coiling itself tight again, but not for more tears, not this time. He shoves off the car, kicks at the dirt a little, then the car, driving his foot against the bumper. Then he does it again, but he's not that steady. He almost falls and I grab his arm. He pulls away and slams his palms against the hood. 

The sheet metal can take his fists better than I can, but I'm not willing to watch Brian burn or bloody himself. "Brian, stop!" I tell him sharply, shouldering in between him and the car. 

His hand comes up, his fist, and I think he's gonna hit me, but he opens his palm and backs up. The muscles in his throat are working. "He was a good man, Dom. A good dad. It shouldn't have taken him so long to die." I'm not sure exactly what he means, because Brian's angry now. 

"I know." 

"You don't know! You don't!" He shoves at me. It surprises me and I drop the water, hear it slosh on the ground. "Your dad -- it was fast. It was _over_. He didn't feel anything! Fifteen years! Of pain! Of sitting in that house, too drunk or too doped to feel _anything_!" 

I feel my own anger flaring up to meet Brian's. Brian shouldn't be talking about my dad's death like it was less than his dad's. I can't believe that Brian is taking this out on _me_. 

Only he's not. I see that when I take a step toward him. I'm so angry I'm stupid for a second, and he's got a look I recognize. He had it once before when he was in my face, pushing me to do something, to take the shot that would break something between us. 

Back then, I took it because I didn't know what it was. Didn't recognize that Brian was counting on my temper to force a choice he didn't want me to make but couldn't see any alternative to. 

And no matter what he said, it isn't about my dad. Fifteen years. Jesus. My father did die fast, probably never knew he was dying, probably was unconscious from the impact. The fire, that was _my_ horror, my fear, my nightmare. I'm going to be sick just from thinking about it; I was then, watching my father burning alive, imaging the pain. Almost eight years ago and it still makes me want to cry or break something, even though I know that he probably felt nothing. He was already dead. He never felt the fire. 

If he wants to take a shot at me, I'll let him. I'm not going to get my nose bloodied over it -- if I can help it -- but Brian's been fighting himself so long that I'd rather see him hurt someone else. "I don't know why, Bri," I tell him. "I don't. I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry he suffered like that." 

And I am. No one deserves that. No one who had anything to do with making Brian, anyway. 

His hand drops, and he stares at me, chest heaving, eyes squinting. "He shouldn't have...we shoulda. She shoulda -- I could have, could have ended it. Should have." He pushes his hands through his hair, claws at it, staggers back like he's gonna fall again. 

I grab his arms just above the elbows. "Brian. You couldn't. It was too much. Too much to ask of you or her. He had to know that, that neither of you could...do that. No matter how much you loved him. Because you loved him." 

He pulls his hands down, and he's calmer. I'm the one that has to lock my knees. The look on his face -- even with his mouth closed and his eyes open, that look, the one I had nightmares about for years, of my father, of what he might have felt but didn't -- it's there in Brian's face. 

"But we could have. Almost did. Both of us. That's why she left." 

I think the earth just dropped out from underneath my feet. There's no earthquake, just that feeling of dropping, of falling. I can't ask him to go on. I don't _want_ him to go on. 

"You don't know what it was like," he says. I don't even recognize his voice. I'm not sure I recognize _him_. "The first year...he was in pain, you know? I mean, he expected it and they kept saying it would get better with time. But it didn't, not really. It came and went, some times worse than others. The pills would dull it for a while. But you could see it when he moved, all the time. And they couldn't give him more. There wasn't anything stronger. They didn't even care if he got addicted. 

“You could see it, and sometimes, sometimes, it would get so bad, he'd cry. I could hear him at night. Could tell during the day when it got too much. And my mom, she cried, too. Seemed like all the time. So he started drinking. And it helped, you know? It made him...kind of mean...and he'd say stuff that he kept inside otherwise. But it was better than seeing him hurt. So we ignored it, the stuff he said. But that's when he started asking her. Telling her what he was going to do. Telling her that if he...killed himself, we'd be okay still. She couldn't let him do it...he tried. And then he stopped trying and the drinking got worse, but none of it was working anymore." 

He takes in a breath, and I take it with him. I'm still holding his arms, and I feel like my skin is burning, like we're both being seared and crisped and dried out, only it's not all the sun, not all the heat of the air. 

"It got so bad that sometimes he couldn't talk. Like if he said anything he'd just start screaming. So he'd grab at us. Sit there and not move until one of us checked on him, got too close, and then he'd grab. He was strong, you know? His hands. He'd grab on and not let go and you thought your hand would break. But you only had to ask him -- did he want pills, booze, both, and when you'd get it right, he'd let go. And I'd get him the stuff, or mom would. 

“Sometimes, he'd grab just to hold on, you know? Like he needed to know we were there, or he was still there. And you could get him to let go a little, enough so that he wouldn't leave bruises. He never wanted to hurt us, hurt her. Because he'd grab for her like that, just to hold on, until she could tell him he was hurting her. And he'd let go...maybe cry, maybe start cussing again. She wore...she wore long sleeves so no one would see." 

He's not sobbing but there's streaks on his face and all around his nose and mouth, the skin's wet. 

"One day...he grabbed her and wouldn't let go," he says softly, almost a whisper. "It had been a bad day already, because he'd been to the doctor. Who did shit all for him. But he grabbed her wrist, there in his chair, and she asked him -- pills or booze, both, what did he need. But he wouldn't answer her. She told him he was hurting her and he didn't let go. 

“She tried to pull away, but he was like a pit bull. So she hit him. Hit his hand, his arm. He held on, stared at her. She hit him again and tried to pull away. Then again, his face, slapping him, then just hitting him and he kept holding on. She only had one h...hand. And sh...she was yelling at him to let her go. He wouldn't. The harder she hit him, the harder he held on. She almost jerked him out of the chair." 

He raises his arms like he wants to do something and I let go. He wipes at his face. I do the same thing. 

"I wasn't supposed to be there. I had a class. French. A test I hadn't studied for, so I cut class. I just watched her. Hitting him over and over. I didn't -- I didn't try to help her. I didn't try to stop her. I just watched. And then...he looked up. Not at her. At me. His nose was bleeding, and she was still hitting him, but it was like he couldn't feel it. He just let her do it, like he knew that if she kept doing it long enough -- God." 

He chokes like he might be sick, but he breathes again, pants. "But when he saw me, he let her go. Just like that. She fell on the floor, had blood on her hand. And she was crying and he was crying and I just...I left. Went into the back. Hid. I heard her leave, drive off. I thought maybe _maybe_ , she'd done it. That it was over. 

“But when I went back in, he was still there. Bleeding. I got him cleaned up, called...called Ed. Told him Dad had fallen. Dad told me what to say. Ed didn't ask questions, just helped me get him to bed. Mom came back a couple hours later and I told her -- told her that he'd fallen. She never knew I was there. She had to leave, Dom." 

Maybe she did. All this time, all the things I've thought, all the things I figured out, it never occurred to me that Pamela was maybe more of a threat to Brian than Earl. That she would see it that way. 

"Fucked up" does not even begin to describe this family. 

"It wasn't....I mean, she hurt him, bruised him up, but she didn't make it worse. He didn't need a doctor, to go to the hospital. He just stayed in bed for days. Wouldn't take his pills, wouldn't drink...like maybe if he stopped everything, the pain would kill him. It didn't, but he didn't move, couldn't, after a couple of days, even to get up to take care of ...of having to take a shit, or piss. Mrs. Pearce came over, called the doctor, had him give Dad a shot of something. Ed helped me move him into the guest room so we could...clean the bed, the room." Brian says, rubbing at his eyes, then running his hands through his hair again. "She never slept in the same room with him again. She just...couldn't even be near him. About a week later she said she was leaving. She asked me -- I told her no, packed her bags. Told her she should go. I couldn't tell her why, that I'd seen. I don't hate her...I never--" He can't get the rest out. 

He doesn't fight this time, it just happens. I don't even know I'm moving, but I am. I get my arms around him and hold him while he shakes and cries. "I shouldn't have stayed. I didn't know that then," he says, face pressed so hard into my shoulder that I can barely understand him. "If I'd gone, he'd have been able to. It would've been over. But I didn't know that I was why he wouldn't." 

I rub his back, close my eyes. I gotta wonder if boosting the cars was a part of this, if this was why Brian didn't take the out they offered him when he got caught. He'd be away, right? Fed, a place to sleep. Only Earl wouldn't. I can't even wrap my head around this. What I was afraid of, what scared the shit out of me, was that my dad suffered. Even for a few minutes. To have to watch it, see it, day after day, year after year -- and then to see a chance, hope that maybe it would be over. 

I hold him tighter, feel my whole face tense up. Christ. I keep thinking about my Dad and about telling Brian what happened. I remember thinking it was weird that I wanted to tell him, wanted him to understand. The whole time I was talking, I felt like he did, that he got what happened when I beat the shit out of Kenny Linder, got it better than I did. Maybe I was right. Not that I had any love at all for Linder, but I loved my father. 

"Faggots!" 

It's screamed from a passing car. My head jerks up. Kids, just kids, and they speed up, take off. I'm pissed off, but it jerks us out of the silence and back into here and now. I don't know how long we've been standing here. I'm soaked with sweat. Brian's the same, and his face is shiny with tears. The water I spilled has long since disappeared. I tug him a little, walk him around to the passenger side. I nearly burn my hand on the handle, but I get him inside. The AC is hot at first and I open the windows. Brian's leaning back, eyes closed, and he's got his hand over his eyes because he doesn't have his sunglasses. Or maybe he's hiding from me. Brian's face is splotchy and dusty, and there's grit in his hair. 

My mouth is dryer than the desert we're passing. Can't imagine what his must feel like. 

"Mom's dress," he croaks. I almost argue, but I head us toward town, finally roll up the windows when the AC kicks in. I'm not even thinking about what Brian said -- it messes up something, shakes up all the things I thought I had figured out, just when I thought maybe I was getting a handle on this. Everything Brian's said, everything Pamela's said -- I gotta wonder if one punk with a gun had any idea how much damage a single bullet could cause. 

The clothes are ready. I get them, then duck into the drugstore next door, grab a couple of bottles of water and a pair of cheap sunglasses for Brian. 

I'm a little surprised I don't get lost because my mind is definitely not on the road. I realize I haven't said _anything_ to Brian. Not one word that didn't involve a command like "wait here," "drink this," "put these on." 

When I pull into the driveway, he gets out on his own, grabs Pamela's clothes. I follow him in, watch him hang them on the back of a kitchen chair. Our shirts are gone. Brian heads to the bedroom and I stop because he hasn't even looked at me. 

And I hear Pamela in the back hall. Can't hear the words, but I don't have to. All she'd have to do is look at him. I think I hear Brian say something, but then a door closes. 

I could use more than beer, maybe more than tequila. Mainlining heroin has some appeal right now. The beer's close, though, and cold. I grab two, head back. 

"What happened?" 

It's hard to look at her. Not so much because of what she did, more because of what I thought. I'm not clear on any of it, but why Brian is how he is around Pamela makes a whole lot more sense now. "It all kind of caught up with him," I say. "Give him a --" 

"I should talk--" 

"Pamela." I'm sharper than I mean to be and maybe I'm wrong. Maybe she's exactly who he needs right now. "He's not mad at you. He doesn't hate you. He never was and he never did. No matter what happened. It was never about you." Only it was. It is. 

I should watch my mouth, butt out, keep out of it. The beers are making my hands slick and I feel gross, like I've spent a couple days in solitary, dirty and grimy and dry and even so, I can't say that I'm feeling anything at all. 

"What happened? What happened when --?" 

"When you left. Why you left." 

You can see it in her face; she's replaying memories, conversations. I know the feeling. When she figures it out, it's almost like a slot machine when it scores, when everything comes up cherries, oranges, gold coins. 

She doesn't want to believe it. Maybe she can't, that Brian knew, that he'd seen it. It would be so much easier to believe that he hated her for leaving his crippled father, that he thought she was a coward, or weak, or that she didn't love him enough, love his father enough. Better all that than to think her son watched her beat his father bloody. 

"How did he...Earl fell." She knows exactly what I'm talking about. She can't even hide it. 

"He was here. He saw it." 

_"I didn't try to help her get free. I didn't try to stop her. I just watched."_

She stares at me for a long time. Then she just nods. She turns around, picks up her purse and sets it on her shoulder, finds her keys. No hurry, no shaking, no tears. She heads out the door. 

I watch her, follow her a little, but she just goes out to her car. She doesn't fumble the lock. She backs out like she's taking a driver's test, eases into the street. 

Maybe I should stop her. She might get herself killed. Kill somebody else on the road. I take a swallow of beer and then another. Close my eyes for a second, then close the door. I walk back into the den. I can see Earl's chair. Right there. His cane's there. The walker is in the bedroom. 

I head back. The door to our room is open, Pamela's, too. Earl's door is closed, so I head in there. I don't see Brian immediately, but I look again and there he is, sitting on the far side of the bed, on the floor under the windows. His head's back and he's got his arms on his knees. He doesn't even look at me when I come over, sit down beside him. I nudge the beer into his hand and he takes a drink after a second. Lets it dangle from the neck by his fingertips. 

"She leave?" he says after a second. "I heard the car." 

"Yeah." 

"You told her." 

"Kinda." I don't tell him I think she maybe knew. 

"I never could." No hint that I betrayed him. Maybe I have. Or maybe I've done something for him that he could never have asked me to do. 

I stretch out my legs; there's just enough room. Shift and make him move, wrap my arm around his neck, tug him over. He leans against me, takes another long drink of beer. "I hate this fucking house," he says. 

I dig my fingers into his hair, rub his scalp, press my lips to his head. Yeah, he probably does. 

But never the people in it. 

* * *

Maybe fifteen minutes later Brian gets up, rubs his hand over my head and goes into his father's bathroom. When he comes out he goes to our room. 

I'm still thinking -- or trying not to think but I check on him a couple of minutes later and he's crashed on the bed. He may be asleep, dozing. I still don't know what to say to him 

I glance at the clock. We've got a few hours still before we have to show at the funeral home and I don't even want to think about that at all. I grab a shower instead. 

When I get done Brian is asleep, dead to the world. He's still filthy but I leave him, give him a couple of hours and I can get him up in plenty of time to get ready. I check Pamela's room, see her clothes laid out; the outfit she wore the first day in the hospital. The ironing board's up but our shirts are on hangers on the closet door. 

I'm half tempted to turn on the TV, just to have some noise, but I don't, then spend a few minutes standing in the middle of the kitchen. Beer or coffee, coffee or beer. I have both. Finish off another bottle while the coffee is brewing. 

The box of pictures is still on the kitchen table, some of them out, like Pamela was looking at them while we were gone. 

I've get my coffee when I hear the car. I expect Pamela, but it's not. It's Elaine Pearce. She comes in without knocking, sees me, meets my gaze with nothing on her face. "I came to get Pam's clothes for tonight," she says. 

"They're on her bed," I tell her and Elaine nods, heads back. She doesn't ask about Brian and that seems strange. 

It takes her a few minutes, longer than it should. She comes back though finally, but she's got Pam's suitcase as well. "She's gonna stay with me tonight." She says it like Pam has no say in the matter. Maybe she doesn't. I can only imagine what Pamela is like right now, what she's thinking. 

"You want some coffee?" 

She hesitates then nods. Sets the bag down, hangs Pamela's clothes on the door frame. 

"She all right?" 

She takes her coffee with cream only. "She will be." 

I sit down, mostly because I'm tired. Physically. But I'm also tired of dancing around all the secrets tucked into everybody's brain. She still hasn't asked about Brian. 

"You knew." I tell her. "You knew what she'd done." 

I'm guessing but I think it's a pretty educated one. Pamela went somewhere after it happened and she went to Elaine now. 

I realize that Elaine's older than Pamela, probably by a good ten years, if not more. 

"She did. She was...she's lucky she made it to my house in one piece that day. I called Ed, but Brian had already called him." 

My jaw hurts from clenching it so hard. "You knew Brian had seen it." 

"No. No...not then. Took me awhile to figure it out. She didn't know either. Not really. She wasn't surprised when you told her, though." 

No shit. 

"She left because she was scared of what she might do. To Earl, to Brian. Nobody else thought she would ever hurt Brian, but..." 

"You never thought she'd be the kind of woman who could do that to her husband either." 

She shakes her head. "No. And no one knew what to do. Arrest Pamela for domestic abuse -- or arrest Earl? Put Brian in child protective services? We talked about that too. We tried to get him to move in with us, but he wouldn't come. Ed tried to stay close, be the father Earl couldn't be, but Brian...sometimes he was okay with it, other times, well he'd turn on Ed like it was all his fault. Then Brian stopped getting mad at anybody, asking anybody for anything. We should have seen it. Maybe known it, but nobody expected Brian to start stealing cars or skipping school. Wouldn't let anybody help him." 

"Maybe you should have tried harder." 

She nods. "Maybe so. Wish I had, anyone had. But that's not what happened." She's not ashamed to look me in the eye, doesn't back off from this at all. Under other circumstances, maybe I could admire that about her. "There's only a few people who know what happened in this house that day," she says. "Including Pamela and Brian. Earl and my husband are dead. Ed knows, though he's never said anything. And now you." 

"Ed knew." Maybe he doesn't deserve a medal after all. 

"He's a cop, Dominic. You think he couldn't tell the difference between somebody's fist leaving bruises on Earl's face and falling on the floor?" Her gaze hardens a little. "I'm not apologizing for anybody. You want to get all righteous and know better because of how you feel about Brian, you go right ahead. There isn't anything you can say or think about any of us that we haven't thought about ourselves at one time or another." 

I can be pissed off and still know what she's saying. I wasn't here. All I see is the damage, I wasn't the one in the middle of it. "How did you know, that Brian was here?" 

She eases back a little, sips her coffee. "I didn't at first. Wasn't any one thing...just, a couple of weeks after Pam left the first time, he stopped hiding his own bruises. Yeah, they both had them," she says at my look. "Pamela hid hers so no one would know. Brian hid his so no one would ask. But after she left, if you asked, he'd tell you flat out his daddy grabbed him. I should have guessed sooner but I didn't. We were too busy trying to find somebody to come into the house that could deal with Earl. Make sure they both had food. There was a lot of people who jumped in to help when Pamela left, doing it out of pity or sympathy, me biting my tongue when they'd go on about her leaving him. Brian hearing it all. " 

"You couldn't have said something? To him?" 

"We didn't know then, that he'd seen anything. He can be a good actor when he wants to be." 

Well, she's got that right. 

"Dominic...he didn't want our help. Child or no, he was always stubborn, always independent. His daddy encouraged that in him -- make your own choices, stand by them. I can't even begin to understand what was going on in that child's head." 

"Your son was his best friend." 

"That's true but I can guarantee you that anything Brian _might_ have told Roman in secret, Roman would take to his grave before he'd say unless Brian told him it was okay. Even now," she says firmly. 

I rub my hands over my eyes, lean on the table. This isn't helping. Or it is because I'd rather stay angry. Pick a target. I feel her hand on my skin squeezing my forearm. Her hand is warm, soft and strong. "Dominic...when I told you what I did...well, I was afraid this, all this would come up again. I told Pam that before she left Boston. But she came anyway. As much for Earl as to see Brian. But I may have been...wrong...about him. Something's happened to him. Something's made him stop walking away when he can't find the strength to stay. No matter what you may think of this whole mess, don't think that nothing good can come out of it, once you see past this part." She pats my arm and gets up. 

I do too, reach for the bag and she hesitates then lets me carry it out to the car for her, put it in the back seat. "Is there anything else I should know?" I ask her because I think I've had all the surprises I can take. I never liked them anyway. I'm pretty sarcastic about it though. 

Elaine flashes her teeth at me again. "Only that if you hurt that boy, my Roman will hold you down while I kick the stuffing out of you." 

I can't help the bark of laughter that escapes me. She grins again, stretches up to kiss my cheek then gets in her car. 

Jesus. I think I know now where Brian gets it from -- the no apologies, no regrets, no what ifs. And it wasn't from his parents. Or maybe it was, just parents he never knew he had. 

I'm still tired but it's more physical than anything. It still would have been nice to know, maybe, but I don't know that I can come up with any other questions I could have asked that Brian would have given me a straight answer to. Really though, he did answer straight, he just didn't fill in the details. I'm halfway back to the bedroom before I realize he still hasn't told anybody else. Maybe Roman, but then again, maybe not. 

If I try to figure out how and why our roads intersected, I'll go crazy. 

He's still asleep. I'm ready to crash too but I'm afraid if I do, I won't wake up even with the alarm. Brian will though, I think, so I set it, lay down beside him and try not to wake him. 

Should know better. Almost the minute my shoulders hit the mattress he rolls over, onto his back eyes blinking open. He rubs at them and they water, leaving more smudges in the dust on his face. "What time is it?" 

"About four thirty. You've got time," I tell him, rolling to my side. 

"I feel gross." 

"Shower could probably fix that." I keep thinking maybe he'll go back to sleep. He does sometimes when we get calls that wake us up in the middle of the night. But no. Cat nap at best. He's wide awake. 

"Your mother's at Elaine's. Gonna stay the night." 

He looks at me. "She's gonna be at the funeral home, right?" 

"Far as I know. Elaine picked up her clothes. We could skip it," I tell him. We could. Let people make of it what they want. Anybody that knows Brian, gives a shit about him, would probably understand. 

"Naw. It won't kill me," he says, raises an arm and makes a loose fist, then brings it down on my arm. "Dom...what I said about your dad--" 

"I know what you meant," I say. I do now. "You've got some leeway here, Bri. But the dunking I gave you last night? There's no reserve left. You'll be getting another one." 

He actually smiles at that. "Quicker than a shower." 

I catch his arm, rub the muscles from his wrist to his elbow. "Elaine and Ed both know." I feel his muscles flex and he makes a fist again, but he only taps the bed, lets out a sigh that just sounds tired more than anything else. 

"Makes sense. They cut me a lot of slack when I was...fucking up." 

"Elaine seemed pretty sure that's everybody who knows," I tell him. Brian's kept this to himself for a lot of years, maybe for different reasons the last few than he did when he was kid. 

He nods, opens his hand again and I wrap my fingers around it. "My mom...she probably thinks I was...hell, I don't know. Punishing her or something." 

I squeeze his hand. "I don't think so. But even if you were, I think she pretty much had that handled all by herself." I push our hands down across his stomach. "You two have that in common among other things." 

"I didn't mean to take it out on you. Her either," he says and stretches a little. "God, talk about making a bad situation worse." 

At least he recognizes it -- hindsight though. I lean over him. His eyes don't look so washed out any more; the blue's pretty clear and maybe more importantly, he's not seeing past me anymore. He's looking right at me. "I'm not going to point out that you were only fifteen. I'm also not going to point out that you weren't the only one who had some choices to make in all this." 

"You're not." 

"Nope. You're a smart guy, Brian. I'm sure you figured that out all by yourself." 

For a second, I think he might cut loose again -- his eyes get a little brighter and he blinks, but a second later he seems okay. Reaches up and curves his fingers around the back of my skull and pulls me down. Not a long kiss; maybe a thank you, maybe something he can't say. Doesn't matter. When he lets me go he gets up. "I'm gonna shower." 

Neither of us are hungry and we avoid anything heavier then talking about the team coming down, does he need to find places for them to stay. He doesn't and he seems impressed that Vince owns a suit. 

We're ready too early but Brian grabs the keys anyway. "Let's go." 

He's quiet on the drive over but not so tense, thumb tapping on the steering wheel to some music only he can hear. I see the funeral parlor but he drives past it, on up the road a little to the cemetery itself. The sign says Mountain View Memorial Garden -- but that's a reach. There's not much of a garden about it, looks kind of like a golf course and the mountains are a hazy shadow in the glare. Somebody, the city or the county, is paying a shitload in water fees to pump out enough to keep the grass green in the middle of sand. There's a few trees but they aren't fairing that well -- they'd have had to truck in tons of dirt. There's an older section too with real headstones instead of the little plaques and flower containers. 

There's a couple of tents up, chairs racked up and ready to be spread but Brian seems to know where he's going, pulls off on the side of the driveway. It's a little creepy, watching him get out of the car and head toward what's basically a hole in the ground. Or maybe it's just this space and my eyes want to rest on the older section with the stones and the monuments, even with nothing but desert grass and a washed out sky. Is it weird to think that it's the headstones that make it seem less abandoned? Or maybe it's just the rows and rows of markers -- there's nothing to really give you any bearing, no landmarks, to help you find your way. 

I'm slow to follow him because I don't really know what we're doing here unless Brian just wants to make sure just seeing it, the grave, the whole place, isn't going to make him lose his cool again, not tomorrow when he's carrying his dad's body to this spot. 

I find myself looking around, looking down, stop a few rows back. Huh. The plaques aren't all the same. There's some small ones, name and dates but there's bigger ones too, some with these insets, pictures sealed behind glass. That's kind of eerie too, even with as bright as it is. I've seen it before, on new graves that are covered with flowers, candles, framed photographs. 

He doesn't stay long, only crouches down at the edge of the grave. They've got a tarp covering it and it looks damp around the edges, probably have to spray water or something to keep the sides from just collapsing back in. But the tent provides some shade. He gets up then, walks around, looking around, far beyond the area we're in, then back to the grave. 

"You jump in there and I'm leaving," I tell him. 

He grins at me and I relax -- didn't even know I was holding myself so tight but Brian's been so whacked, so all over the place, I hardly know what he's going to do next. "Wasn't planning on it," he says, joins me under the shade. "Just wanted to make sure I could find it again, you know, after the tent and shit are gone. There's a space for me here too," he says and I want to pop him. "Dad bought them...four of them. Probably got a deal." 

I don't want to think about this. Really, I don't. I think about it often enough at home, listening to the police band radio. "You are depressing the hell out of me," I warn him. 

He grins again. "Sorry. Not... We can go," he says and heads back. 

Of course now I can't _stop_ thinking about it, even after we get back in the car. Used to be the only time I ever listened to the police band was when there was a race on, or if we were tracking a truck. See if there were cops close by, ready to drop the hammer on our fun. Now, at the garage, it's on all the time, a constant chatter, but I know Brian's designation, know when he's rolling on something and usually what. In LA, there's always something going on and I don't know what I'd do if I heard something that scared me. 

He's told me I shouldn't listen, that it will make me crazy. He may be right, but at the same time, if something happened to him, I can't trust that anyone would call me. I don't know who he's got listed to notify. 

Need to fix that. Soon. 

There's cars at the funeral parlor already but not many and Brian finds a corner of the lot that's close to the building, so that maybe by evening, the shade will have cooled the car off some. Inside is cooler and it's so traditional I feel like I've walked onto a movie set. Maybe morticians across the country get a great discount for all using the same interior designers. Low firm couches are in the hallways, landscapes that kind of blur together on the walls. It's like walking into a show room full of mini living rooms. 

He checks at the desk, finds the room. 

We're early and the coffin's not here yet. But flowers are. Lots of them. So many they make my nose itch. 

"Do I sign the book?" Brian asks me. There's a little table set up inside the door with a guest book and a picture of Earl -- a young Earl -- next to it. 

"No," I tell him and pick up the pen and sign myself in. Feels weird. It's not like Brian's going to forget I was here. My guess is he isn't going to want the book. Pamela might though. 

Brian's checking out the flowers, reading the card, just wandering really and even so, he jumps a little when the rear door opens. It's two guys from the funeral staff, wheeling in the coffin. It's pretty plain, black lacquer, handles in silver or something that looks like silver. 

"If you'd like to wait outside--" one of the men says. 

"We're good." Brian gets out of their way though, but I'm thinking maybe we're making them nervous or maybe the extra special care they take in moving the coffin to the skirted stand is just part of the service. They don't even so much as jar the table. When the coffin's in place they move flowers around the base. It's like setting up a display for a trade show. 

The funeral director comes in and spots Brian, offers his hand and Brian introduces me as his partner. I manage to keep a straight face when he says, "Pleasure to meet you Office Toretto." Guess it just points up that Barstow is not LA. Neither of us bother to correct him. 

"The room will be open in another fifteen minutes," the director says and goes to the coffin, ready to open it. "Would you rather we wait?" 

Only because I'm standing next to him do I know Brian's tensing up again, but his voice is normal. "No, go ahead. It's okay," he says and the director nods, opens the top half of the coffin, sets a little brace so that the lid won't collapse accidentally. Then he leaves. 

Brian doesn't move at first and from where we're standing you really can't see Earl. I move first, not so much because I really want to see Earl but just to get it over with. Brian's only a step behind me. 

I don't really want to think about how mortician's do what they do. I'm guessing people like it or they wouldn't have jobs, but it still seems a little creepy. Strange. I remember thinking, when we had my mom's funeral, that it wasn't her. I'd seen her in the hospital. In her coffin, she looked more like herself, not like she had when she was sick. I remember my dad picking Mia up and Mia saying Mama looked like she was sleeping. Asking Dad if she was gonna wake up. If, not when. Dad told her no and Mia never asked again; no questions later about where Mama had gone. She was, like, eight -- she already knew what death was. I was older and I still kept hoping, wishing, praying. Would wake up, sometimes, expecting her to be there when I went downstairs. 

"He hasn't looked this good in years," Brian says quietly. 

I don't have much to compare it too except pictures and yeah, that's who Earl looks like, the man in the pictures. They did something -- the left side of his face doesn't seem so caved in, his skin's more even, not like it was in the hospital or even when I met him months ago, face all red, broken blood vessels, age spots. He does look like he's sleeping. Even his wedding ring fits better. His hair is clean, shiny dark. 

There's a pin on his lapel and I look at it. Fifteen years on the force. 

I look at Brian. He's got a little more than five and I'm stuck there, wondering how he'll be, how he'll look in another ten, another fifteen. If he'll get one of those pins. Twenty years on the force and he could retire, right? He'd be in his forties. 

He'll be as old as my dad was when he died. I move away, check out some flowers, that's my cover anyway. 

Fifteen years. I can see myself then. I see myself still with Brian and that kind of surprises me, shocks me a little. It's been a lot of years since I thought much beyond the next few minutes or days, the next race, the next job. If Brian takes after his mom, he's still gonna look good, not that much different -- a few more lines around his eyes, a few more miles on his body. 

I look back and he's still standing at the coffin, but he's got his hand in there, on his father's head, stroking over his hair like he did at the hospital. He's calm though, jaw not so tight. No tears. 

His lips aren't moving but this is good-bye I think, because when he pulls his hand back and looks at me, he smiles a little, like telling me it's all right. He's all right. 

There's chairs in the room, against the walls, spindly-legged reproduction, with heavy, dark fabrics. I settle in one, lean my head back against the wall. After a minute Brian takes the chair next to me, stretching his legs out. "You ever wonder what your life would be like if your dad hadn't died?" he asks me. 

I haven't. Not really and it's an odd question from Brian. "Playing what if?" 

"Maybe a little. Wondering if I'd have done what I did. Wondering if I'd have become a cop if...you know, he hadn't been shot or if it hadn't been as bad as it was, if he'd been...different." 

"Not much, I haven't," I tell him. Things would be different though -- no prison time, no guilt of reducing a grown man to someone with the brain capacity of a kid. No shame at still thinking at least a little that he deserved it. But if my dad were still alive, we'd still be in our house. Or he would be. 

"I don't know if I'd be a cop," he says. "Or not in LA. Maybe still here." 

Not in LA. I look over at him and he's looking at me steady. And even if he had been, would I have been doing what I was doing that brought us together? I honestly don't know. My dreams had all been about racing. About being on the circuit. Maybe making a name, the whole father-son thing, like it was in the genes; the Toretto name up there with Parker and Garlits and Ongais. 

We wouldn't have met. Or maybe we would have but not like we did, not with so much at risk, so much to lose, so little time to actually make decisions, make choices. For a second I'm wondering if Brian is asking me if losing my father was worth meeting him, having him, and I swear to God, I don't know. But that's not it. 

He's putting it in perspective. Everything that we have is because of all that happened before -- big stuff, little stuff. Who Brian is, who I am...how we got here; it's got some major pain, stuff you really wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. 

It is what it is. "My dad would be in his fifties, probably not racing," I say after a minute. "Still working though, I think. He'd have pushed for me to go to school, like Mia." 

"Would you have?" 

"I don't know. I think I'd be...racing. Working a crew." Chasing something. 

"I wouldn't change anything," he says quietly, drops his fist on the back of my hand, then gets up. "I'll be back in a minute." 

He heads out, and I'm sitting there. Would I? Jesus. So much. Yeah, my dad, Linder, Jesse...Christ, even the Trans because I'd probably never have gotten tangled up in their whole deal -- or if I had, my father would have either come down on me hard or kicked my ass out. It's one thing to work a few deals on the side, nobody gets hurt, nobody that matters -- blue collar survival against white collar faceless corporate names. I've still got that. 

But Brian...If nothing had happened. If Tran hadn't gone psycho on us...If I'd let Brian walk away. 

There's a chill down my spine and I get up like someone's goosed me -- or walked over my grave. 

I'm hardly past it when the door opens. It's not Bri, it's Pamela and Elaine, and Renee, the three musketeers in skirts. I get to my feet. 

"Dominic," Pamela says and she meets my eyes but I swear she wants to look away. 

"Brian stepped out for a minute. Bathroom probably," I tell her. "How are you doing?" 

She seems a little surprised I'd ask. "I'm...all right," she says but there's a flush creeping up her face and she looks away toward the coffin. That can't be much better. She moves though and Elaine reaches out to pat my arm as she goes with her. 

I just stay out of the way, stick my hands in my pocket and glance at the clock on the wall. I'm not sure I can take two hours of this. 

Except I will. There's just some things you have to do. I can remember my mother getting us dressed up sometime when Mia was barely walking. I don't even remember who it was -- a neighbor or someone and Mama made lasagna, put it in a big tinfoil pan and we walked to a house I don't think I knew then and I'm not sure I could find now. We didn't stay long, just long enough or her to drop off the food, to be offered a cup of coffee and there were cookies. 

It was something we had to do, she told me when we were walking back. Sometimes there are things you have to do, like look out for your sister when you would rather play. Like try not to bother Papa when he's had a bad day at work. 

Pop had a lot of bad days at work. Funny how I barely remember them -- the details. I just remember him better when I was older, after Mama died. When sometimes it seemed like even though he was the one bringing home the paycheck, I was the one taking care of the family. 

I don't remember it being like that before my mother died so much. He had bad days then too, Days when the market didn't do so well, or the garage. When he'd lose a race and the entry fee it took to get in it in the first place. 

It's like my father's death kind of overshadowed everything else about him. He wasn't a bad father, or a bad man. Not angry and bitter like Brian's dad. But he was different after my mother died. 

Brian says his parents hardly ever fought before his dad was shot. My parents fought all the time -- not ugly, just shouting matches: English and Italian, Spanish and back to English again. All over the house, up and down stairs, out into the yard. Sometimes my mother would throw things -- wet towels mostly, shoes, sometimes food, the occasional dish. My father never threw anything back that I know of, but he'd tell her she was crazy. I think he learned Spanish just so he could make sure she understood him. It all usually happened before dinner, right when he'd get home -- something would set her off, probably money, but I don't remember really. I do remember picking up Mia and sitting with her on the stairs while they'd go at it. 

A couple of times Mama would pick her up, be fixing her bottle or her snack, all the while yelling at my father with Mia on her hip. Dad would storm out to the garage and a little later she'd be at the back door, calling him in for dinner. 

He always came in. 

And Brian wonders where Mia and I get it from. But fights were just fights. You yelled, you got whatever it was off your chest and it was over. Mia and I can still get into it. So can me and Vince. Brian watches us like we're all nuts. At least I always thought that's what he was thinking, how he'd get out of the way. 

Now I'm not so sure. 

He comes back in, sees his mother. I can see him take a deep breath, put the cool back on. And he goes to her. 

I don't know what I expected. Maybe I should know Brian better, or maybe this is all so hard for him that it's not fair to expect him to act like I think he would. Pamela looks like she might cry again, or maybe she hasn't stopped, just that there's a point where tears -- they just can't come anymore. 

I can't hear him, he whispers something to her. 

I was wrong about the tears, because they are falling now, covering her cheeks. Brian's eyes are dry but bright. There's no big hug. Pamela's hand closes over his arm and Brian covers it. 

I slip out of the room. 

I feel like I've got a cold. My chest is so tight, it's like I took in a lungful of exhaust. I cough to clear it. 

In all the craziness of the last few days, watching Brian tear himself apart and put himself back together, it's easy to miss the things that have stayed the same. Yeah, he's lost his cool, maybe lost his balance, maybe even, God willing, some of the shame he's carried around all this time. 

I didn't need to hear what he said. I know what it was. He apologized to her. Not for his attitude for the last few days, not for his distance over the last twelve years, just for one single moment that's gonna be with both of them for the rest of their lives. 

He's never lost his courage. Not once, not really. He hasn't backed off from what he feels and he hasn't been running from anything he's done -- or anything he didn't do. I don't think he ever worried about whether I'd hate him or be disappointed in him for what happened with his parents. Not worried about Pamela either, I don't think. Brian had pretty much cornered the market on blame for that one. Responsibility for that matter. 

One moment when he didn't help either his mother or his father. I'm not sure I like what that says about Brian, but it explains a hell of a lot. 

I find a chair in the hall and sit down. I can see the driveway from here, see cars turning in. They aren't going to have much time and I wonder if I should tell them. 

I don't have to. Brian comes out, leaves the door open. I can just catch a glimpse of Pamela and Rene and Elaine, together. Brian comes to stand in front of me and I look up. He still looks tired, kind of washed out, but quiet, _peaceful_ like he hasn't been. 

"You okay?" he asks me. 

I nod. "Yeah. You still up for a couple of hours of this?" 

He thinks about it, nods. "An hour maybe," he says and grins and I smile back, get to my feet. 

"I still think, if you're going to have a wake, you should have food and beer," I tell him as we head back in. 

He puts and arm around my shoulder, pulls me close and kisses the top of my head. "Tomorrow, after the funeral, I promise you, my man, we will wake the dead," he says. 

Hallway's empty and I catch his hip, pull him in, catch his mouth too, feel his fingers rub along the base of my skull. 

Tomorrow, I pray, we really will put the dead to rest. 

* * *

It's a pretty steady flow of people the whole time. Some people I recognize from coming by the house, but there are others I don't recognize. Brian pulls me aside at one point, says a lot of them are on the force -- he doesn't know them either. 

I still have trouble sometimes, getting my head around the whole cop thing. Just in separating my initial reaction -- which isn't good -- to looking at these guys, these men and women, and realizing that a lot of them are more like Brian than the cops I've dealt with. Mostly because here and now, they are seeing me as a man, a friend of the family, not a perp they are chasing down a street, or a guy they are pressuring because I _might_ know something about someone else. I've never been a snitch, not on the streets, but when you get a name, people, cops, tend to think you know more than you do. 

Once upon a time, they'd have been right. It's one of those grey areas in my life that Brian hasn't tried to push into. Not that it would do him much good now -- it didn't take long for the word to get out that I'm living with one of LA's finest. I don't know which freaked people out more, the fact that Brian is a guy, or the fact that he's a cop. The results are pretty much the same either way. In LA though, it's more the fact that Brian's a cop that worries me a little. I worried about it the first time I heard it whispered back to me. I mean, there's a reason why most cops _don't_ advertise where they live. 

I never liked cops much, but I never had any urge to hunt them...but with some of the people I know...knew...it's almost like a sport to them. Nuisance shit mostly, but it can get ugly, especially in our part of town. There's bad blood on both sides. 

Brian's never had that -- not that gut reaction to cops. Even when he was picked up for boosting cars, I bet the last thing he thought was that his troubles were somehow their fault. But every time I've been busted, ticketed, I felt like they were hunting _me_. Like they were just looking for a reason to hassle me... 

I don't know. Maybe it was watching my friends getting hassled for no reason I could see when I was growing up. Sometimes the cops really were looking to hassle me. Maybe it was because the cops that handled me, picked me up at the track after I beat Kenny Linder, they treated me like I was some kind of monster. 

Maybe I was. I couldn't tell you what they saw. Now, though, now 'm walking a pretty straight line. There's not a whole lot of give for me in this probation. I got off light and I know it, and I don't think for a minute that I won't be hauled back to Chino to serve out the rest of my sentence if I so much as jaywalk. 

I can't even imagine it, going back. Not like before, when I honestly thought I'd rather die than go back to prison. There are worse things...not many, but a few. Losing my sister would have been worse. Losing Brian before I even knew what I had or wanted...I can't even think about it without getting tense. 

Between Brian and this though, I'm getting that there's this weird double life these guys live. Women cops too, I bet. I guess it's a lot like being in the military, but Brian's said -- this war, the one they're fighting, it'll never be over. They can't win it. Some days, I bet they don't even know why they keep doing it. It's not the pay or the hours. Maybe it's the rush, or maybe most of them, like Brian...just want to make a difference, just a little one. Just once in awhile. But like anyplace else, there's always going to be a few who are just bad. 

But not most. If anything at all has shifted in my attitude about cops, that's it: I've gone from thinking most of them are bad tempered, power tripping assholes to realizing that most of them are just guys doing a job...and that the nasty ones are only a small percentage. 

Even some of these guys here, paying their respects to a man they didn't really know, there might be one or two I wouldn't want to meet on a dark stretch of highway. But most of them, they're just guys. 

Guys like Ed, who probably has more in common with Brian now than he ever has. After tomorrow, they'll both have buried partners. 

He comes over after talking to Pamela for a few minutes. "Brian," he says. "I've got something for you. Something of Earl's." 

"Here?" Brian asks. 

"Out in my car. I wasn't sure how long you'd be here after the funeral tomorrow and I didn't want to give it to you in front of your mother." 

We don't even have to excuse ourselves. It's close to the end of it anyway and I'm ready for the late dinner Brian promised me. He does step up to his mother to let her know we're taking a little stroll. 

Ed and I don't have a lot to say to each other. I don't know what he thinks of Brian and me together. Whatever he might think, he's not saying but he doesn't question my right to go with them. 

We walk to his car, which is a pretty respectable looking '87 Camaro. Not a bad ride for an old guy. Maybe it's all this open, flat road out here...it just begs for something with a little horsepower. Plain though, factory paint job and I'd bet nothing's been replaced on this baby but a couple of fan belts and a fuel pump. 

Ed pulls a small box out of the trunk; it's one of those metal cash boxes and he's got it locked, but he opens it. 

It's a gun. It takes me a second to realize that it's not _just_ a gun, it's Earl's gun. Personal, not whatever weapon the Barstow PD issues. It's a 9mm SIG, and Brian just stares at it for a minute before picking it up out of the case, checks it on autopilot to make sure it's not loaded. 

Ed closes his trunk, leans back against it and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offers it to both of us and Brian almost reaches for one, then stops. "Smarter than me," Ed says but puts one to his lips and lights it, takes a deep drag and blows it out. "Earl was my first partner," he says after a second. "Only partner I ever lost to the job. I almost quit after he was shot. Felt like it was my fault for not looking out for him." 

"Ed--," Brian says. 

Ed holds a hand up. "It wasn't my fault, Brian. I know that now. It just took me a long time to understand it. Believe it. That's not what I want to tell you." Brian stares at him long and hard then nods. 

"Okay." 

"I probably should have spent more time with him than I have over the last few years." 

"He never made it easy." 

"No, he didn't. But these last couple of years -- he wasn't in as much pain as he was before, Brian. Or he got used to it, maybe. I don't know, but he's been more sober and sane than I think you realize." 

Brian doesn't say anything, but he's looking at his shoes. I'm not sure he believes Ed. But I only met Earl once. Not enough time to know, maybe. 

"Don't ever think he wasn't proud of you, son," Ed says. "When I'd visit him, if I got there early enough, before he'd really hit the bottle, he'd say so. Old stuff, mostly remembering. He told me that he wished he'd seen you graduate from the academy, that he wanted you to have that, 'cause he didn't need it anymore. He never blamed you for anything, Brian. You know that right?" 

Brian meets his eyes and nods. "I know, Ed. But, thank you for telling me. I never blamed you either." 

Ed takes another drag on his cigarette then drops it, grinds it out on the pavement, "Yeah you did. Once upon a time, but it was okay. You've been a good son, Brian. He'd want you to know that." 

He reaches out and grips Brian's shoulder, looks a little surprised when Brian pulls him in for a one armed hug. Embarrassed even. "I'll see you in the morning," Ed says when he steps back. 

We wait for him to get in his car, pull out. Brian watches him then shakes his head, walks over to his car to lock the gun in his trunk. Then he leans against the car. I settle in next to him. I'm in no hurry to go back inside. 

"Is it me or was that--" 

"Total bullshit," Brian says with a little smile on his lips. He sticks his hands in his pockets. "Sometimes I think they still all see me as twelve." 

"Nice thought, though," I say and Brian gives a snort, half laughing. 

"Yeah, well...he's a good man. But...he's been apologizing for my Dad for years. Trying to make it different than it was." 

"Did you blame him?" 

Brian chews on his lower lip for a second. "Yeah. For a long time. Wished he'd been the one shot instead of my dad. He was the one that went around back, left Dad out there by himself. It was pretty standard but if he'd been up front, they might have both been hit. It was a fucked up situation, Dom." He fishes for his keys. 

"When did you stop blaming him?" I ask. 

He pushes off the car and pulls his jacket off. "Not long after Tony died," he says, unlocks the door and tosses his jacket in the back. He leans over the roof while I open the door. "There wasn't anything I could have done to stop that either." 

"You don't think your Dad was proud of you?" 

"I think half the time, when I'd visit him, he thought I was Ed," Brian says quietly, meets my eyes, then gets in the car. 

That takes a second to settle in. If what I saw of Brian's dad was only a taste of what Ed saw, he's a stronger man than me -- to keep visiting a man who probably hated his guts. 

Guilt makes people do strange things. 

Neither one of us feels much like being waited on and Brian heads back to the house. I'm guessing he told his mother we were leaving -- I don't even ask. It's not like there isn't enough food to feed an army back at the house. We don't even have to cook. 

Brian goes for the hard stuff when we get back. I don't think I've ever seen him drink whiskey by choice -- we keep Tequila at home -- but usually it's beer. I join him -- drunk or not, his father's got good stuff in the bar in the den, but even as Brian's pouring, I realize there's a lot of bottles that haven't been opened. A couple of them are even still in their fancy gift boxes. 

"People gave your father booze for presents?" I ask him. 

Brian shrugs. "Wasn't like he needed anything or anyone was going to tell him to stop drinking." He finishes off his glass and pours another. 

"You want to lay some food down under that?" I ask him. 

He gives it some thought. "I probably should." He takes the bottle with him though. 

Mostly we pull out what looks good, pop a couple of things in the microwave and eat standing at the counter. Brian manages to get something on his shirt in the first five minutes. "Do I have another one?" 

"Yeah, I brought two," but I only have one suit, one set of slacks. 

We both head back to change. Brian takes his glass back with him but he sets it down before he starts stripping, hunting through his bag for clean jeans. The ones he wore earlier are in the washing machine. I change too but I'm wondering why, except that it's not even eight-thirty. 

Brian pulls on his jeans but doesn't zip them up before he takes another drink, swallowing half the glass. He makes a face. "Whiskey's not like tequila, you know," I tell him. 

"I know. Results are the same," he says and I catch the glass, sniff, take a sip. Yeah, it kind of makes my tongue curl too. "You said you wanted a wake," he says. 

"No, I said a wake needs beer and food," I remind him. "Are you going to get drunk?" 

He's got the glass halfway to his lips. "Can I?" 

He's serious. "Depends on why." 

He looks away for a second then back at me. "When I said I really hate this house...I meant it. If we had the money or it wasn't so stupid, I'd check us into a hotel." 

I give his hand a nudge and he drinks. Fast. That and the two he's already had put a flush in his cheeks. "Am I going to have to toss you in the pool again?" 

He grins at me. "I like the pool," he says. "I just -- I want to stop thinking." 

That actually makes more sense than anything he's said in awhile. There are those, what, stages of grief? I'm not sure Brian's going through them in the right order. Or maybe he is. He's pretty accepted his father's death, but the waste of his life? That one may take a little more time. 

I pull the empty glass from his hand and set it aside, cup his neck. "You could have asked." I pull him in and he resists for half a second then just gives in, gives up. 

No, he couldn't have. I'm starting to see that Brian's got a real problem asking for anything -- directly anyway. I think I've known it for awhile, but usually, that sidestepping he does, with the jokes and the sly grins, it cracks me up. It's funny, it's flirty, and kind of sexy. 

But when it matters, it's not funny. 

I give half a thought to the food we left out on the counter, to the fact that Brian's put away three drinks in about thirty minutes. Hasn't affected his ability to function though. His hands are on my back, long strokes from my neck to my ass and he's sucking on my tongue like he wants to swallow it, swallow me whole. He tastes and smells like whiskey. 

Then his hands are undoing my fly. 

It's almost too fast, all of it, but when Brian said he didn't want to think, he meant it -- and he doesn't have to think about any of this. He's not going to say what he wants, he's just going for it. He goes to his knees while he's pushing my pants down. He wraps one hand on my dick and puts me in his mouth before I can even get my hands behind me to grip the dresser. 

But I need one free and press my ass to the wood, reach out and stroke through his hair, watching as he sucks and licks. Fills his mouth and throat with me. 

Jesus, he's good at this, always has been. Even now, when he's a lot wired, he still knows what to do with his mouth and his hands. He's got my dick trained up like a dog, sitting up and begging for more of him until I have to put my hand back on the dresser to hold me up before my legs give out. I push a little -- can't help it -- and my breathing is harsh in my ears, harsh and broken, mixed in with the wet sounds of his mouth working me so good, it's almost painful. I push again trying to hold back before I choke him. Brian may be good, he may be used to me, but I'm still big, thick, filling his whole mouth, lips stretched thin around me. 

He grabs my hips and holds me, mouth sliding over me so fast, I can feel the heat he's leaving on my skin. It goes deep, heats me up inside, a burn that's fast and white hot. 

I jerk and he pulls back, lips the head of my dick and I groan. "Bri..." 

It's all he needs because then I'm pumping come and he's all over it, swallowing it down, licking it up as fast as I'm spilling it. He's jacking himself off as he sucks me down, and that's just wrong, only I'm still shaking too much to do anything about it. I feel like if I let go of this dresser, I'm just gonna slide to the floor. 

But that's where Brian is. 

I wish I could say I'm graceful about it, but mostly, not. I feel that same jolt in my knees and back that I felt when I jumped the railing in the hospital, but you know, it'll pass or I'll put ice on it. Later. I push Brian's hand away, his arm, and he braces himself with both hands on the floor. 

On his knees still. His jeans have gapped open and holding himself up makes all his muscles tighten up: Shoulders, arms, chest and belly. Even his thighs are hard, the denim stretched tight. His dick is red and flushed and wet already. His face too, eyes all dark and bright. He's definitely not thinking at the moment...nothing more than he needs this, wants me. Needs me. 

I wasn't ever sure I could get used to having another guy's dick in my mouth, much less learn to like it. Maybe it's just Brian. Maybe it's just that, yeah, loving him like I do, nothing seems too much. 

He went at me fast and maybe that what he wants from me, but I take my time, slide my hands around his hips, under his jeans, pulling them tighter, cup his ass before I take him in. If I really wanted to make this last, I'd make him take the damn jeans off, but mostly I want him to get whatever relief or release he's looking for. 

He tastes clean if a little salty, the skin of his dick and stretched smooth, the come already leaking from his slit is almost sweet, if a little sharp. Or maybe that's the whiskey I can still taste in my mouth. I suck on his balls and hear him groan, then he takes in a sharper breath almost like a sob. When I go back to his dick, I look up and he's stretched tight, head back, swallowing like he's got something in his throat. 

I don't get a warning because Brian's whole body just heaves and it's too much, too fast and I have to back off, swallowing what I have in my mouth even while he's pumping out the rest. It hits my chest and I wipe at it, then see his arms trembling and get my arms around his lower back, pulling him up against me while he's still shooting come. 

He holds on tight, both of us on our knees. I'm sure we look ridiculous, pants around our thighs, jism on us, on the floor. I cup his face finally and he's still got that glazed, flushed look. 

Getting up is like a comedy act. We're lucky one or both of us don't get a concussion from trying to deal with numb legs, weak muscles, and pants that have no reason at all to stay up. No reason to keep them on if they aren't going to cooperate. We both finally end up on the end of the bed, laying back, staring up at the ceiling. 

"We should put the food up." I say after awhile. I hate wasting food. 

"I still think we should get drunk." 

"We could do both." 

"We could say fuck it," he points out. 

He reaches over and fondles my dick. Scarily enough, it twitches. Definitely no thinking going on. 

I roll to my side and look down at him, rub my hand along his belly, pushing lower. He twitches too, swells, spreads his legs a little. I tease him a little, stroke across his hole and he closes his eyes. Gives me a more encouraging squeeze. I'm interested but this could take awhile. 

Fuck it. That works.  


* * *

We do manage to get the food put up, toss some of it, pull out more and eat again, but it's a couple of hours later. Brian has another drink but I think it's both sex and just plain exhaustion that finally puts him down for the night. I'm not far behind him. 

We both forget to set the alarm, but we don't need it. Even with a late night and more whiskey than was smart, Brian rolls out of bed like he usually does -- too early. But he kisses me awake and I really don't complain except for form's sake. 

He makes me breakfast. 

It's probably a good thing we got up early because by seven, the phone's ringing. The house phone, my cell. Mia calls to tell me they're on the road. Pamela calls just to let us know she's riding over with Elaine but asks if we could bring her rental. I wonder if she plans on heading back to LA and jumping on a plane, but I don't ask and neither does Brian. Maybe they both understand each other better now, but the wounds are still raw. I kind of hope not -- not so much that I think she should stick around, but because I really don't think it's fair for Brian to have to deal with all the stuff surrounding the house, Earl's property, his will. Especially not if his mother's still the executor. I guess she could deputize him or something but it would still be kind of...well. It would suck. 

Brian's ready before I am, wearing his lighter suit, blue shirt. He's traded out the cheap sunglasses I bought him yesterday for a pair of his father's -- patrol issue and reflective. They'll protect his eyes better but I can't see them when he puts them on. We roll out of there like we can't wait to get this over with. I guess it's true. 

We're not the first to get there. The honor guard is already in there, in dress uniforms. I don't envy the cops wearing those uniforms in this heat. Ed's there too, decked out, no sidearm though. None of them are wearing them. 

Our crew rolls in just before the service starts and when Brian spots them he's got a grin on his face that makes the sun seem dull. No matter the reason, he's glad to see them. 

Mia's the first out of the car and she goes right to Brian. Every now and then I look at the two of them and wonder. I wouldn't give Brian up for anything...except...she loves him. She really does. Had to change what that means a little, maybe a lot. And Brian...I've never asked him if he had ever really tried to see a future with her. That territory's too shaky, it gets all twisted up in my head, in my heart. 

Vince and Leon look almost respectable. Actually they look damn good, cleaned themselves up, and that says something about how much they actually do recognize where Brian fits into their lives, my life. I should tell Vince to put the polish on a little more often. He'd have the babes falling over themselves. 

And Letty. Letty doesn't hold back from going to Brian either, but this is Letty. Letty who's wearing a dress -- a real dress that comes to her knees and everything, in a pair of stacked heels that just make her assets look like, well assets. She's got men's heads turning just standing still. 

Our little team is turning heads no matter what. They all look good. _Respectable_ , but I take a little pride in the fact that we stand out, we're different. Pride, maybe. They aren't here because a man died. They're here because the man's son is one of their own. One of our own. 

Barstow may have raised him, but LA owns him. He's ours now. 

And Brian knows it. 

Pamela sees it. I'm watching her. She's waiting, wanting to meet them, but nervous about it. Next to her, Elaine is smiling, watching us and next to her... 

No missing him. I'm a little surprised and pull off my glasses. Subtly though. Not like I'm checking him out. 

Roman Pearce doesn't look like his pictures anymore. Mostly because in nearly all of them he was smiling. He's a big guy, hard, skin darker than my suit. He looks at me, lifts his chin a little. It's a throw down of sorts, I guess. He knows who I am. I know where he's been, that look, that chin. That's a prison dog look if ever there was one. I've staked territory he's always thought of as his and he's not sure how to call me on it. 

Brian sees him too, just about then. Takes a step forward, but Roman just turns away and heads inside. 

Fucker. Brian takes it on the chin though, calls his mother over. 

I don't know what she expected, but in two seconds, Mia's got her reassured, Letty's giving her respect and Vince and Leon have charmed her to pieces. So much so that she walks in on Vince's arm. The dog. Everybody's mother loves Vince. It's the fathers that usually want to kill him. 

Letty hooks up with Leon and Mia links arms with Brian and me. 

Brian and I have to spend a few minutes inside the chapel with the other pall bearers, learning how to lift the coffin, where to go. When they finally open the doors, we're already sitting. 

We sit up front but I honestly don't remember much of the service, barely remember the eulogies. Ed gets up, and the Chief. A few friends. I'm as surprised as Brian when Roman Pearce gets up. He's walking slow, pants are loose, but he's still tagged. I'm guessing with this many cops here, the judge or his probation officer thought this was not a big risk. 

"I'm guessing most of you know I'm not too fond of cops -- even ones I know," Roman says and stretches out his leg to show off his leash. Brian puts his hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter, but not everyone is so successful. 

"Most of y'all know Earl O'Conner because he was a cop. Served with him, maybe felt bad for him because he was hurt doing his job. Watched somebody you admire turn into someone you didn't know no more," he says and I've got to give him points for balls. Bet he gets 'em from his mother. 

"I remember that man, too," Roman says, and he's leaning over the podium like it's a backyard fence. "I remember the man who taught me to throw a baseball, throw a football, 'cause my own daddy, well he was proof that not all black men are good athletes." That gets more snickers and I'm fighting a smile of my own. Roman grins, showing white teeth -- he likes making people laugh. His smile eases back, though, and he straightens up. 

"But that man ain't the one we're gonna be dropping in the ground in a little while. You all know it and maybe you shouldn't speak bad about the dead, but most of you remember this man as someone who was angry. Who hurt. Who lost a lot more than his job when he got shot that day. Most of you...he chased you off years ago. Chased his family off," he says, and I glance over. Brian's looking at his hands, mouth tight. "So you didn't really know him anymore. Didn't recognize him. Probably didn't even like him much." Roman's looking at our row, at Pamela and Brian mostly. "My daddy died a few years back. He was a good man too. Been a friend to a lot of folks in this town. Filled prescriptions for you, listened to your troubles. Filled Mr. O'Conner's prescriptions. Dropped 'em off himself because Earl O'Conner was a friend of his for a lot of years. But even so, when my daddy died, Mr. O'Conner...he came to his funeral. Right here, in this room. Then he went to the grave. And then he had a drink, because that's what they did, when my daddy would stop by his house and leave him his pain pills and his heart medication...they'd have a drink together. 

"Mr. O'Conner was still a good man even when he got to be a mean one," Roman says and I swear there's not another sound in the whole room. The only thing I can hear is Brian breathing, slow, deep. He's looking up now, eyes bright all over again. "He stayed a friend to me, even after you folks tossed my butt in jail for no good reason." 

My jaw is gonna hit the floor, either that, or I'm going to end up kicking his ass. No matter who Roman Pearce is or was, this is not the time or the place for him to be airing his own beefs with these people. I glance over at Brian again but he's got his head down, hand over his mouth and I realize he's doing everything he can not to burst out laughing. 

"Didn't none of y'all come and see me," Roman says glaring at the whole lot of them. "But Mr. O'Conner did. Kept in touch and he told me...told me that happy ain't never easy. And things that is too easy don't make you all that happy." He sniffs a little. "Guess I proved that's true without knowing it. ‘Cause boosting that car was easy as pie but I sure ain't happy about what's happened since." 

Brian snorts, chokes and I'm fighting a grin. I hear a few snickers behind me. "So, if being happy ain't easy, then Earl O'Conner's had a lot of years of hard. I figure it's gonna be a non-stop party for him once he kicks those pearly gates down." 

I swear I hear Elaine Pearce say "Amen." 

"Anyway..." Roman says. "He's a man I respected, looked up to when I was growing up. I'm hoping he'll put in a word or two for me when it's my time." 

That's it. He eases down and goes to the end of the row to sit next to his mother, waiting while the minister gives some last words. 

Then we're up. Brian moves first, me, Ed and the three guys from the honor guard moving up with him. It's not as heavy as you'd think, not with six guys carrying it low, out to the hearse. Once we're clear, the rest of the people will file out the back of the chapel, I guess. 

They've got a car waiting for us, a limo, and behind that another car with little flags on the hood. We're already pulling out when I look back and see Pamela getting into the second limo with the minister, Elaine, and Roman. 

When we get to the gravesite, we have to wait a bit. We park close by, a straight shot to the grave. The chairs are set out but we wait for the long line of cars following us to pull in, start parking along the curb. 

It's already hot out here; I can feel it on my skull, feel my shirt sticking to my back. I watch the honor guard get in place. 

Ten minutes or so later, Ed walks back to the car behind us and helps Pamela out. Beyond her I see our crew, picking their way across the grass. Mia pauses, looks at me. 

This is all really familiar, I know. For her, for me. The only difference is that there's actually a recognizable body in this coffin and our father's coffin didn't have an American flag draped over it. 

They're waiting for us now. People are still pulling up, walking toward the tent, but Ed's opening the back of the hearse. Pamela comes up close. She's got a green jacket over her black dress, dark sunglasses. Her hair looks more gold than Brian's in this light. 

Brian and Ed are supposed to take the front two positions, with me behind Brian, but it's a little harder to get the coffin out than it was sliding it in. I just barely get my hand wrapped around the carry bar when one of the cops in the back position steps back, but he's too close to the curb. He ends up on his ass and the coffin almost hits the ground. 

Brian squeezes in beside me, barely able to get past the open doors. What wasn't heavy for six guys is damn awkward with only four and the end of it is dipping hard. 

Then it gets a little easier and I look up to see Roman catching the end while the cop gets to his feet -- tries to. He's done a number on his ankle, can't put any weight on it. Elaine's right there, checking him out. 

"It's a sprain," she says, offering him a shoulder to lean on. 

"All right," Ed says, "Let's put him back and I'll get--" 

"It's covered," Brian says, and I glance at him but he's looking past me. 

I follow his gaze like a slow tennis match and see Roman looking past me too, at Brian. 

Roman still looks sullen, maybe even angry, and I do not get this thing between them, but Roman shifts his grip. "It's covered," he agrees. 

Whatever it is, he's put it aside for now, but he's still glaring past Brian, at me this time. Maybe because Brian asked me to do this, to be here, instead of him, instead of this friend he's known forever. Not like I could have gotten up there and said jack shit about Earl O'Conner, so someone asked him to speak. Maybe even Brian -- who'd laughed, wanted to laugh. Had to know Roman would say that outrageous shit. 

"Let's go," Ed says, and I stop thinking and get a better grip. 

You'd think we'd practiced this. The cops get on the other side and we finish easing the coffin out, clear the doors. "On three," Brian says quietly and counts it off. 

That's it, lift and turn, get the padded runners up on our shoulders. Ed and Brian do all the steering, up over the curb. All I can see is Brian's back, the sweat that's making his hair go dark at the nape of his neck. 

The honor guard salutes as we pass and I hear a low whisper of voices, a couple of people cough, clear their throats. 

It's only marginally cooler under the tent and we pause for a second, let our eyes adjust to the shadow it casts before we walk the coffin up over the cradle that will lower it. "Three again," Brian says quietly and it hits me then, that he's done this before. Before Tony. I almost miss the count and we're not as smooth but we don't drop it, just ease it down, step back. 

The hydraulics make hardly any sound as it gets lowered a little. Brian steps back and goes to his mother, offers her his arm and walks her to her chair, sits beside her. I take my cue from Ed and back up some more, just to the edge of the tent. 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I'm sure that's in there somewhere. Across from the coffin I can see Brian, Pam...see my crew standing in the sun. I can't anyone's eyes but Mia's and she's watching me, not the coffin. I pull my glasses off so she can see my face, show her I'm okay. 

When the minister finishes, I can hear the honor guard call out. They're behind me and I flinch when the guns go off. Blanks or not, it's loud and the echoes linger. Two of the ones in dress uniforms come in, start with the flag, folding it slowly. They both look a little flushed and sweating, but their hands are steady and so very careful as they finish up and walk the folded flag over to Pamela. She doesn't take it until she leans in to Brian and whispers in his ear. He nods slightly and they take it together. 

That's pretty much it. The honor guard backs off, the coffin gets lowered while everybody stands up, and the minister has a few more words to say before tossing a handful of dirt and sand on the coffin. Brian's not looking at it, or him. His eyes are up, looking way beyond the tent, maybe even beyond the cemetery. 

Pamela gets up and I put my sunglasses back on. Crack my neck because I just feel sore and not from carrying the coffin. I don't know what I expected, but my eyes are on Brian as he passes the keys to the rental back to his mother before coming over to me. "Need to pick up the car on the way back," he says but he's looking at Roman again. "You coming by the house, Rome?" 

"Naw. Done my bit," Roman says, but he's not moving. 

Brian's not going to beg him, but it hurts him. He also knows he'll live. "I appreciate what you said." 

Roman shrugs. "I liked your dad." 

Brian smiles a little at that. "He liked you, too." 

"Everybody likes me." That gets Brian to roll his eyes and mine do, too, but I've still got my glasses on. Then he's looking at me. "So, this your bodyguard, Bri, or you just decide now you want to hang out with criminals?" 

Asshole. I smile at him, hold my hand out. "Dominic Toretto." 

"I know who you are. My momma thinks you're a nice boy." He shows me his teeth then takes my hand. 

Oh, like that, huh? He's got a grip like a vise but I'm not exactly known for my delicate touch. 

"You two can cut it out any time now," Brian says. "I wish you'd come by, Rome." 

He lets me go, looks at Brian. I mean _looks_ at him. Like he hadn't bothered to before. Brian's squinting in the sun. He doesn't look bad, he looks pretty good in that suit, but he looks tired, at least to me. 

Something in Roman's face changes. I almost miss it. But he shakes his head anyway. "I would, man, but..." He kicks his leg out, exposes the heavy ankle bracelet with its little blinking light. "They wouldn't cut me loose a whole day. I got another half hour, maybe, 'fore I have to get back in range." 

"Yeah, I get it," Brian says. Excuse or not, there's no point in arguing about it. Roman walks with us, though, Brian in the middle. 

"I hear your mom's thinking about moving back," Roman says. 

Brian nods. "She's talking about it. Hasn't made up her mind." 

Roman sucks on his teeth a little. "She does, you gonna hang around more?" 

Brian's watching where he's stepping. "Maybe. Yeah. At first. If. You gonna come visit?" he asks. 

"She invited me too. I might go visit _her,_ " Roman says and sniffs. "Since certain _friends_ of mine never invited me up to LA for nothing." 

"Huh. Well, you know I woulda...” Brian says in that too-serious voice that he uses when he fucks with you. “Apart from that little detail of you being _in prison._ ” 

"Invitation still woulda been nice," Rome says, put out. Mostly an act. Hard to tell with these two. But I'm starting to see where Brian gets something of his that I both admire and sometimes irritates the shit out of me -- Roman Pearce has given him _years_ of practice at seeing through bullshit. 

"So, my dad came and visited you in Chino," Brian says after a couple of steps. 

"Well, you know. He always liked me best," Roman says. 

I'm seriously gonna have to keep my mouth shut. Yeah, Roman, go ahead and point out that his father visited you but never came and saw Brian. 

"He drive up?" Brian's saying, and I look at him again and have to reassess because Brian's grinning. "'Nothing that's easy makes you happy'. Wow, that's pretty damn deep coming from my dad." 

"Well, maybe...I mean he woulda. 'Cause he did like me best." Roman touches his chest then throws his arms out. "Well, you know, maybe he didn't _visit_ me, but he coulda wrote me. You sure as hell never did." 

"You told me that if you never saw my punk ass again, it would be too soon," Brian says, but he doesn't sound mad. 

"Yeah, well, there you go, thinking with your hair color instead of your brains, blondie," Roman says. "Took me six months to cool off enough to breathe." 

Brian stops. We all do. "I know. I'm sorry, Rome. You know, if I could have done--" 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah...another year of the ball and chain and I can settle your shit without getting tossed back inside. I'll kick your ass then," Roman says, starts walking again. 

I've seen this before, shit, me and Vince, we've _done_ this before. So I relax a little, drop back a step but not far, because Brian's looking at me to make sure I'm still there. 

"So, my dad wrote you." Brian's still needling him. I get that pretty much everything Roman said was bullshit, but then again, maybe not. 

"Well, maybe not _exactly_ \--" Roman's off again and I smile to myself. We reach the limo and they stop. Roman's face gets all serious, which seems like a hard look for him. It probably is. 

"I been working at the diner," he says, kind of rushed, glancing at people who are waiting on us. "He'd been coming in regular, for breakfast, shooting the shit." He looks down. "He'd been...better, you know? Remembering things. Not so...jacked up as before," he offers and I step away, give them a little space. Brian's looking up and out again, fists dug deep in his pockets. Rome says quietly, "He did say that to me, bro'. Easy ain't happy..." 

"Yeah, well, he'd know," Brian says. 

Rome reaches out and plops a big dark hand on Brian's hair, messes it up a little and Brian grins at him, takes a swat at him, and they tussle for about ten seconds, then Roman just wraps those long arms around him and hugs him. Not too long, not too tight. 

"You know my momma's gonna give you shit if you don't come by and say hi -- even if Pam don't move." 

Brian nods. "So, if I invite you up to LA in six months or so, you gonna come?" 

"I might. If you ask nice," Roman says. "I'll think about it." 

"I'll think about asking then," Brian says, but he catches Roman's hand in a tight grip. I push myself off the car and we get in, pull out leaving Roman standing there. Brian's got a little smile on his face all the way back to the funeral home. 

We're out of the car before I realize I do, too. 

* * *

We're actually among the last to get back to the house, us and our crew. We pull up and I'm trying to remember if Brian or I left anything out that would be embarrassing. But then we're all standing on the front lawn, dressed up and fine. 

"Wow, Brian, nice digs," Leon says. 

Brian grins and is the first to pull off his suit jacket, loosen his tie. "Welcome to the backwater 'burbs," he says. 

The house isn't _that_ big, I know, but it's like most of the others on the block and just the amount of land attached to it is pretty impressive. Definitely not LA. 

"It's nice," Letty says tilting her head and pulling her glasses down. "I could live here." 

It takes us all about three seconds before we burst out laughing. Letty's grinning too. "Come on, I'll give you the tour," Brian says and leads the way. 

There aren't nearly as many people as I would have thought and again, most of them are familiar, same faces we've seen over the last few days. Renee and Elaine are all over the hosting duties; there are two pots of coffee going, the bar is actually set up, and the food looks like it's been catered. 

Brian has to do the whole surviving son bit for a few minutes, and I watch him. Leon and Vince aren't shy about filling plates and Renee looks pleased about that. Mia stops to talk to Pam. Of all of them, Letty looks the most out of place and I grab a couple of beers, catch her eyes and head out to the back. The pool gives the illusion of cool and there's shade under the umbrella. 

"Jesus, I hate these things," Letty says, taking a good long swallow of her beer. 

"I could do without another one for a while," I say. "It's good that you came though." She shrugs, takes another drink and settles into a chair. 

"I came so Mia wouldn't have to deal with those jerks alone," she says, but she's fingering the label on her bottle. Letty's not much of one for deep conversations. Never was, and even less so now. "Who was that guy? The one that had everybody cracking up?" 

"Roman. Roman Pearce. He and Brian were friends as kids. Are friends." 

"He was funny as shit," she says. 

I should tell Roman that. A stamp of approval from Letty is pretty damn rare. 

"You doing okay, Dom? Mia's been worried." 

I nod, take a drink, sit down myself. "Getting there. Just watching Brian -- it's been rough." 

She fidgets, leans forward, a frown on her face. It bugs her still, I think, that this thing between me and Brian is as real as it is. As solid. She doesn't want to be entirely out of my life -- and I don't want her to be. Letty's as fixed in my head as family as Mia is. I've known her almost her entire life. But she doesn't know where she fits anymore. We've been too close for me to ever feel like she's a sister. Too much history. 

Mia sticks her head out the sliding doors, sees us and comes out. She snags Letty's beer and takes a sip. Letty grabs it back. "I like his mom," she says, looking at me and I grin at her. 

"She's all right," I admit. 

"You know she's a CPA? Some firm in Boston," Mia says. "And Mrs. Pearce is a physical therapist." 

More than I knew. "Good jobs," I say. "Do I need to know this?" 

Mia rolls her eyes. "No, but...Jeez, Dom. They're practically in-laws," she says, and Letty almost chokes on her beer. 

"That's not funny," I tell her but it is, kinda. 

"You could do worse," Mia says. 

"Yeah," Letty says wiping her face and taking another swallow of beer. She looks at Mia. "He coulda married me," she says, and for a second that joke almost falls flat, but then Letty's snorting with laughter again and Mia as well. In all the years I've known her, I think marriage came up once and she looked at me like I'd lost my mind. I'd have a hard time seeing Letty tied to anyone by anything but her own choice. And if that weren't the way of it, Letty's mother pretty much hates my guts and her father doesn't think I'm such a great prize -- of course, he's pretty much washed his hands of Letty as well. 

"Oh, you two are funny," I tell them and knock back the rest of my own beer. 

That just sets them off again. It also seems to trigger some alert, because Vince and Leon come through the doors. Vince has a plate full of food, eating while he's walking. "What's so funny?" 

"We were just thinking we might have to come back down here for a wedding," Mia says and looks at me, smirking. "Got a dress, D?" 

"Oh, that's gonna cost you," I say and get up. Mia scurries behind Vince. 

"Who's getting married?" Leon asks looking confused. 

"I don't know. I think Brian might look good in a dress," Letty says. Any other time it might be sound like more of a dig from her, but she's laughing so hard she's got tears in her eyes. 

"Brian in a dress?" Vince asks and pulls away when Mia reaches around to snag something off his plate. "For what? What? Ah, Dom -- tell me you aren't thinking about the whole drag thing?" he says. He looks like I just kicked his dog. 

I had no idea Letty could howl like that when she's laughing -- and I've heard her make plenty of noises. 

"Oh, come on, V, it would be fun," Mia says. "You could be the maid of honor. Or the best man." 

"He could be both," Leon offers. "You know, tux jacket, little chiffon skirt," he said. 

"Chiffon? How come you know that word?" Vince says. "Why don't you wear the dress?" 

"Nobody's wearing a dress," I say, but I'm having a hard time keeping a straight face. Vince looks mortified. 

"You guys are full of shit. There's nobody getting married," he says. He looks at me and gets this grin on his face. "Not in a dress anyway. Mia could give you away." 

"And good riddance," Letty says. "I can see the whole thing...right here by the pool, nice flowers, a big cake..." 

"Brian's mom could give him away...you know since his dad..." Vince starts it, then realizes he's talked himself into a corner. There's a couple of seconds of silence why we all remember why we're here. I liked it better when they were laughing. 

"So, probably a good thing," I say without really thinking about it. "Because if he were still here, you bunch as wedding organizers probably would have killed him. You'd bring in a rock band or something." 

"No, no, no!" Mia says. "A mariachi band!" God love my sister, that sets them off again. And then they're going out of their way trying to outdo each other and embarrass me. 

I'm not usually this impervious to their bullshit, but it's so familiar, the kind of clowning around we haven't done in a while, that I don't even try to stop them. 

It's not that we haven't gotten together, because we have, we do, pretty much every week, but it's been different: me and Brian, me and a guy, me and a cop -- all of it's taken some getting used to. Not just for me, but for them. They pulled together when Brian's partner was killed, because it's what we do, but this time...this is closer to home for them. For me. That they feel okay making jokes, talking shit about weddings and traditions, giving me grief, I feel like I can breathe again, like I've been holding my breath through all of this. 

It doesn't matter that it's here, or that a man's dead. I may understand Roman Pearce better than I thought -- him and Brian. Because I'd bet hard cash if he were here, he'd be right in the middle of this. 

It feels good. 

Leon is making some crack about something borrowed, something blue, when I head inside to get another drink -- this could go on for awhile and now that they're revved up, they don't need me, but before I get to the door Brian opens it and he's got what's left of the case in his hand. 

"I figured you guys would be ready for refills," he says and he must have heard them laughing. It stops for a second again, although Vince still has a smirk on his face and Mia's face is all red from laughing. For a second I think it will all fall apart again. Like they aren't sure how Brian would take this. I pull a beer out and pop the cap. 

"I'm just saying neither of us are wearing white," I say and take a drink. 

"White as in...?" Brian asks. 

"Wedding dresses," Mia offers and comes to get her own beer. 

"They're planning our wedding," I tell him and Brian blinks. 

He pulls a beer out, pushes the carton into my hands and grins at me. "I'm not wearing the dress, _honey_ ," he tells me. 

They start up all over again. Brian grabs one of the chairs at the table and Mia sits on the arm. I go back and put the beer in easy reach. 

It figures that Pam would come out to check on us, and she smiles automatically at the laughter she hears, catches us once more, but Vince is the one who answers when she asks. 

"We were just talking about what a great place for a barbecue this would be, you know, like on the Fourth or something, Pam," he says 

She nods. "It is. We used to cook out a lot out here," she says. "Earl liked to show off his grilling skills," she said and they're all listening, but it's awkward now like it wasn't before because they didn't know Earl and they don't Pam and they don't know what to do with her grief. 

"Burning the food skills," Brian says, when the silence goes on about two seconds too long. "What was I, mom, ten? When he made up the new sauce and the grill caught fire." 

She blinks and then grins. "The bourbon sauce." 

"Whole thing caught fire and he pushed the grill into the pool," Brian pushes on and Mia at least plays into it. 

"Dom did that. Nearly blew the house up trying to rig that propane tank," Mia says. 

"That was a faulty connector," I say in my own defense and God I do love my sister, because easy as that the stories start flying. Pam becomes part of it because Vince pulls a chair out for her, offers her a beer. 

I don't think Pam actually drinks beer but she takes it. She listens, she laughs, and like in the garage with the pictures, the stories come out. Good ones mostly, stories about Brian as a kid and the trouble he got into. 

Somewhere in there, Mia gets up, comes behind me to lean over and kiss my head. She doesn't say anything, but I know why. 

It doesn't actually make any difference, hearing this stuff, Pam giving up little bits of Brian's past that he'd probably never have told me himself. It doesn't make any difference in how I feel or what I know is true about him. But it shows me some things. Things I didn't need to know, but I'm kind of glad I do. 

A few people come out to make their good-byes and Pamela gets up. Our little patio party breaks up too. "We should head back," Mia says and she sounds sorry. She probably is. 

But neither Brian nor I try to change their minds. It's a couple of hours drive; better to hit the road now. We walk them out though, let them say good bye to Pam. 

"You coming home tomorrow?" Leon asks. 

I've got my hands in my pockets, glance at Brian. I'm not sure. We haven't talked about what comes next. 

"Yeah," Brian says. "Her flight leaves tomorrow night, so we'll be back in LA." Leon takes that as the only answer he needs, reaches out and give Brian a one-armed hug, then me. 

It'd be funny if I was just watching. Vince isn't quite so physical but we shake hands, hug and kiss Letty and Brian's thanking all of them. 

"I'll stop by the house, see if you guys need anything," Mia offers and I take her up on it. We've been gone almost five days and I didn't do more than glance at the kitchen when I was there, toss the mail on the counter. 

"Thanks," Brian tells her and Mia scrunches up her nose and looks at him for a long minute before wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him hard. Brian hugs her back just as firmly. Whispers something in her ear that I don't hear but when she lets go it's Mia's eyes that are bright only she's smiling at him, approving. She hugs me again. 

"Love you, Dom," she whispers. 

"You too, bella. I'll see you tomorrow." She nods and lets go, squabbles with Vince for a second over who'll drive. She wins. Leon's the last to get in; he waves and they are gone. 

Brian looks in no hurry to get inside, kicking at the dying grass near the sidewalk. 

"What time's her flight?" I ask him. 

"Around five. She won't get into Boston until Monday," Brian says. He gives the grass one last kick and heads in, up along to the garage instead of the front door. I follow him. The garage is cooler anyway. 

He runs his hand over the back of the Seville. It's dusty and his fingers leave streaks. "Told mom we'd find a buyer for this. Maybe donate it. It's modified, for a handicapped driver." 

It's a big car, gas guzzler, but not in bad shape. "You want her to move back here?" 

He puts his back to the trunk. "Kinda," he says quietly and fidgets. "Not because I think we're gonna be...Boston's just a long way away if something happened, you know?" 

I haul myself up on the trunk. Car just takes my weight. Great shocks. "There's nothing wrong with wanting her close." 

"It's not that it's...okay, it is that," he says with a grin and stretches his neck back. 

"Grown woman." 

"Grown son." 

I'll give him that. "She likes the weather." 

Brian snorts. "Which only proves she's lost her mind. This place is fucking _hot_ , Dom." 

"She's not asking you to move back here." 

"I wouldn't. Even if she asked." 

"If you did, I'd move too," I tell him. I don't think I meant to tell him. He goes really still. 

I think I just expected him to know it. Maybe I would have, before all this -- just figured he'd know it. But now...what Mia said. It's not that Brian doesn't want to rely on anybody, count on them, trust them. He doesn't know how. It takes practice. 

"I wouldn't ask that." 

I shift over behind him, put my hands on his shoulders. "You wouldn't have to." 

He leans back after a second, shifts his hands to my calves. Not exactly the most romantic place to be edging around declaration of love, defining what we've got -- in the middle of a hot afternoon in a dusty old garage. 

Then again, maybe it's the perfect place. 

* * *

By the time we get back inside, most of the people are gone and Renee's already packing up food. 

"You should take some of this," she says. "It's just going to go to waste." 

Brian looks at me and shrugs. "There's a cooler in the garage. I'll get it. Take anything you want." 

Me poking through the leftovers seems to make Renee happy and she goes on wrapping things up. Elaine and I help her. I set aside some stuff while Brian hunts down and washes out the cooler for tomorrow. 

The last few people leave while I'm sorting out what food will actually be worth taking back to LA and Pam manages to chase Renee and Elaine out. Brian puts on coffee and finally changes from his suit to jeans and no shirt. Pam starts a load of laundry and checks on us but mostly we're not talking much. I'm pretty sure Pam and Brian are both chatted out and I have been for, oh, about three days now. 

I finally change too and come out to find Brian at the kitchen table, going back through the box of pictures. He glances up at me and smiles and I just run my fingers through his hair before grabbing coffee for both of us. "It's decaf," he tells me and I hide my grin. That's for me. Brian might be able to drink it and still sleep. Me, I'll be up all night or at least I wouldn't sleep easy. 

"You want to take stuff back to LA?" I ask him. 

He shrugs and shakes his head. "Probably not. Can't think of anything. Depends on what Mom does. Renee and Ed will keep an eye on the house and stuff. Renee said she'd make a list of what's here so we can decide what to get rid of, what to keep." 

It's like renting out the house in Echo Park all over again. Stuff Mia left because she had no place for it. Stuff in storage that we could pull and use, but Brian's house -- our house -- is pretty small. 

"We hitting the road early?" 

"Yeah. Mom wants to make a couple of stops. I'll call you from LAX after I drop off the car." 

"I'll meet you in baggage claim," I tell him before he can suggest getting a cab or something. He grins at me. Leans in. 

I don't know if Pam's timing sucks or is great. It's kind of weird, to be kissing Brian in front of her, but as often as we have been and she's walked in on it, I'm starting to think she's planning it -- even if only subconsciously. She doesn't look freaked though, just kind of thoughtful. 

"I really can get myself back to the airport," she says and gets some juice from the refrigerator. She sits down next to me. She's got her hair pulled back and it makes her look even more like Brian. 

"It's not a problem," Brian tells her. 

"Just don't get in any five-car pileups on the way," I warn them and Brian laughs. Pam smiles. It lasts a few minutes then Brian gets kind of twitchy. 

They really don't know how to talk to each other, not without something to grab onto, something that needs to be decided, something that needs to be handled, but neither of them moves, even though Brian looks like he's ready to bolt and Pam keeps looking at the kitchen like she wishes there were something to clean. I feel like maybe I should leave them alone for a few, take a drive. Change the oil in Earl's car. Something. 

Pam's got the same idea, although not quite what I had in mind. "I think I'm going to take a walk," she says, getting up. "Just see what's changed in the neighborhood." 

There's a fraction a of second of something like panic on Brian's face -- but it's not that. It's...hard to describe. Fear, opportunity, I don't know. 

She hesitates, maybe waiting for him to say something before reaching out and touching Brian's head. He doesn't flinch and he does smile but he doesn't offer to go with her. 

I feel a little guilty when I hear the front door shut -- relieved and it's like I've been holding my breath. It's not like they are going to kill each other, but the tension between them is wearing me out, kind of like watching a wreck as it happens -- when everything seems to slow down. They keep missing actually colliding by fractions but there's not a damn thing I can do to help either of them avoid it. 

Almost before she's out the door the buzzer for the dryer goes off and Brian's up and out of his chair like a shot. I give him a few minutes before finally getting up and following. He's got all the towels and sheets and tablecloths piled up on the dryer. The last of our stuff is in the washing machine. I haul myself up on the dryer; it's thumping again while Brian folds towels. 

He should have gone with her. I know it, he knows it. "You gonna be all right with her tomorrow?" I ask him finally because he's being stubborn now in his silence. Another little habit I've noticed. Brian will talk about things that bug him but you have to nudge him a little -- like it has to be a mutual thing or he'll just deal by himself. Doesn't work that way in reverse though. Every problem I've got at the garage, Brian knows about. Every time my probation officer gives me flack, he hears about it. But then again, he asks. Looks like I'm going to have to learn to. 

"Yeah. Just...not tonight," he says like that explains something. It doesn't. Not really. 

I give him a little kick. Not quite in the ass, but close enough. Just a tap. He gives me a half-glare but then he grins, shakes his head. 

"I know we need to talk," he says and tosses me one end of a sheet. 

"You want her to come back here, you need to tell her," I tell him when he steps in to catch the fold. He finishes folding the sheet in my lap then sets it aside. 

"I know." He pushes a hand through his hair and grabs a towel. I grab another one. "I just...I don't want her to come down here thinking it's all going to be..." He stops again and rubs at his eyes like he's got a headache. I set my towel down and tug him closer. 

"Her being here isn't going to change anything, Brian. You said it yourself. Just make a few things easier, maybe. When you are ready. I don't think she expects more than that." 

"But to move -- do all that -- she'll expect..." 

"Her choice. But I think if you told her not to come, she'd probably stay in Boston." 

He makes an exasperated noise. I grip the back of his neck and he just folds up, arms around my waist, head on my thigh. I rub at his back, my fingers tracing over the scar on his shoulder. He's gonna have to tell her about that too. He can't keep her at arm's length if she moves here, if she comes back into his life. And that's what he wants. Close, but not too close. 

"I don't know what I want," he says, kind of muffled. 

"Then tell her that." He lifts his head after a second, looks up at me. He's got this look on his face that's halfway between stubborn and surprised, like it never occurred to him to just tell her straight out what's going on in his head. Maybe it hasn't ever occurred to him. "She's not expecting you to have all the answers, Brian. Neither do I. You'll figure it out. So will she." 

I can practically hear the gears in his brain grinding. "I wish I had your confidence," he says and I grin at him, shove more towels into his hands. 

Pam isn't gone long, maybe a half an hour, and we've already packed, loaded up the car except for what we're wearing tomorrow and the food. We watch the TV for a little while -- ask what Pam's watching, what shows we watch: it's a pretty safe topic. 

Brian's not as tense when we finally hit the bed, but it says something when darkness and silence don't bring up anything but a couple of touches and a lot of getting comfortable. I fall asleep pressed up against his back but somewhere in the middle of the night, he gets up and doesn't come back to bed. 

I hear the patio door open and close and get up to check on him. He's out there, in the lounge chair looking up. I almost go out to him, but I hesitate. There's only so far I can push; only so much I can offer. I go back to bed but I don't sleep either. When the alarm goes off, I'm relieved. 

It's reason enough to get up. I head into the kitchen to find the coffee on and the food in the refrigerator has already been packed up and loaded into the Mustang. "You in a hurry?" I ask him as I fix my coffee for myself. He's dressed, mug in hand. He doesn't look any worse for the loss of another night's sleep. 

"No. Not really," he says, taking a sip. He's leaning against the counter but he looks --okay. Like he's decided something. "Helped me think, having something to do." 

"Anything I can do?" I'm not talking about packing up the cars. 

"You're doing it." He's got that look on his face and if I were the blushing kind, I'd be red to my knees. "I'm going to get her up," he says and stays long enough to kiss me, hesitates like he'd like to keep doing it for awhile, then grins and heads back. 

Yup, scarlet from head to toe. 

It takes Pamela a little longer to get it together, though it's not so much because of packing and loading up the rental as that she seems really reluctant to leave. She calls to check her flight, starts to pack a few more pictures in her suitcase, then puts them back. 

I'd say a decision has been made. 

I get a really long, hard hug from her and a kiss on the cheek, her studying me like she's got something she wants to say. "Call us when you get home," I tell her and she chuckles. 

"It will be the middle of the night." 

"Do it anyway," I tell her and she nods. 

"I'll call," Brian tells me and there's not much else to say. Pam doesn't need to worry. I think we'll still be up even if Brian does have to work tomorrow. 

I let them pull out first, following. Not too many roads back to LA but suddenly I want nothing more to than to be home and I speed up and pass them, really ready to leave Barstow behind for now. Everything important to me is following me back to LA. 

I'm tempted to push the speed limit a little but I don't, wonder if I should call Mia. I don't have anything to tell her though. Maybe when I get home. 

Feels a little weird when I pull up to the house and I sit in the car for a minute. A weird mix of relief and still feeling out of place. I've been living here with Brian for months and it still doesn't feel like home unless he's here too. I try not to think about it as I unload the car. Which makes it impossible for me to _not_ think about it. 

I've lived in one place my entire life -- not counting prison. The house in Echo Park has always been home. Thought about it a lot when I was inside. When I got out, I think I wanted to see it as much as I wanted to see Mia. It was something solid and real. 

I had two long years to do not much but think about all of it. Cradle to ...grave. My father's grave, anyway. 

By the time I got out of Lompoc, the house -- my house -- was something I'd wanted to get back to more than anything. It was like seeing it new all over again, seeing what Mia had changed, which wasn't much. 

I wanted to be there. Everything good I remembered in my life was in that house up until I met Brian. My parents, my sister, everything from the cracked linoleum in the kitchen to the upstairs toilet that runs unless you jiggle the handle because I've never replaced the float. 

This house, this place Brian and I share, even now I don't think he thinks of it as "home". It's where he lives, yeah. Where we live. But I think I understand how Brian feels about the house in Barstow. I didn't even grow up there but just hearing him talk, looking around...it's all pictures in a box that were packed away. Forgotten, fading... 

I don't think I realized how...fragile...it all is. Not life. I know that. I've always known that -- you can't lose a parent when you're young and not know it. But to lose a parent and have no _place_ you can get back to, no sense of anything that's gonna last... 

How the Brian I know came out of that without being a fucking lunatic, I still can't quite understand. Everybody needs something solid and real. Like family. I can only imagine how much more fucked up I'd be if I hadn't had that. 

And I've lost it -- kind of, but it doesn't feel like losing anything. I miss the house, yeah. The old neighborhood. I hate like hell that Mia's life got all turned around, turned upside down, but she seems a whole lot less upset about it than I expected. Maybe she sees the old house differently than I do. Two years she lived there alone while I was in prison. Jesse died there. I totally crashed and burned there. Brian was _shot_ there. 

Not so different maybe. Never the house, always the people. You'd think I'd know that too. 

Right now, though, this is home. 

Mia left the light on in the kitchen and I have to grin at the food she's left for us. Looks like Renee may have rubbed off on her. We won't have to shop for a week or more. I tuck the rest of the food in the fridge where I can and sort through the mail -- or try to. I'm not really paying attention. 

I'm about as tired as I've ever been but amped too, like I know something's coming and I'm not sure if it's good or bad -- that rush before a race, or maybe during a race, when the curves are tight and you know the groove is there but you don't know you've hit it until you feel the curve rise up to hug you and hold on. 

It's a fit, Brian and me. Not like I didn't know we are good together. Maybe I just didn't know how good until something shook loose. 

Jesse used to talk about how car engines could calm him down, make things make sense in that brain of his -- give him something to focus all those smarts and instincts on. Brian's my engine. 

I'm not sure he'd be flattered by the comparison but it makes me grin while I grab a beer and pop in a CD -- one of Brian's; old school rock and roll. I leave the door open and sit on the front porch to drink it. 

Mia saw it before me -- no surprise. I've been trying to get my life back since I left prison the first time, to get back to where I was or someplace better. Brian too, maybe. It's not even all the crap with his family so much as he'd escaped it. At least I think Brian thought so. Right up until he got hauled back into it. I always thought going back to prison would kill me, or I'd kill myself before doing it. But I have to look at that a little harder now -- because I sure as hell wasn't playing the smart thing and trying very hard to stay out. 

And I didn't stay out -- but there was something on the other side this time. Something, someone, to focus on. Maybe it should have been Mia or even Letty but they weren't enough, not then. Family has always been the most important thing to me -- I always thought so. Not sure I actually took very good care of the one I had. Probably ought to thank Vince for taking up the slack. 

And Brian -- Brian seemed to want it so bad, like he didn't really know what it felt like. Maybe he didn't. But he knows how it's supposed to be, taking care of each other, forgiving pretty much anything. 

The beer is warm by the time I get to the bottom of it. Sun's out, but not nearly as brutal as Barstow. I grab the paper thinking I'll read or something but even as I flip open the Times, the whole week seems to hit me at once. I make lunch but I'm not hungry. Think about going to the garage just to check -- now I'm the one that's twitchy. But I think it's more that I'm tired, chasing my tail. I can't fix this for Brian. And really, I don't think he wants or expects me to. 

I've got enough brain cells to remember to drop my cell on the bedside table and then I'm gone. 

I wake up on my own, more or less. No phones ringing, no sounds beyond what's normal for the neighborhood. It's nearly five thirty and Pamela should already be in the air, unless the flight was delayed. I finger my phone, looking for missed calls, check the answering machine. 

Nada. Shit. God knows what he's doing or where he is. I'm not so much worried as I am annoyed. Just a little. 

It's not about me. I have to tell myself that a half dozen times, start working up and around what's going on in his head. 

Then my phone rings. 

"Hey." I can hear noise in the background, voices, announcements over the intercom. 

"You ready?" I ask him, aggravation fading like melting ice. 

"Yeah. United baggage claim. It's really packed here though. I can get a cab." 

"You in a hurry?" 

"Kind of," he says and I can hear the grin in his voice. 

"What do you want to do?" I ask, fingering my keys. I'm gonna give him some space if it kills me. 

"I want to be home," he says. 

Whatever way is fastest. 

"I'll be there in twenty." 

He chuckles. "Don't get caught." 

It takes me a little longer than that and he's right, LAX is packed, but he's in the middle island and stepping off the curb before I'm even pulling over. I hardly even brake before he's sliding in, door closed and leaning back. He reaches over and rests a hand on my thigh before I shift and get us the hell out of the demolition derby that is LAX's passenger drop off and pick up. He leaves it there the whole time, but it just rests on my jeans. When I glance over, he's got his eyes closed. 

He looks tired. He also looks a little sunburned. Not much, just more pink than he was. He's got one elbow resting on the window frame, fingers buried in his hair. "You eat?" I ask him. 

He stirs a little, squeezes my leg but doesn't pull his hand back. "Yeah. We stopped at some place on the beach." That explains the sunburn. 

I want to know if they talked -- which is kind of, well, dumb. I doubt they spent the better part of the day in total silence. He doesn't have much to say -- Pam got off fine, sent back thanks again and then he's got nothing else to tell me until we're pulling onto our street. 

"She'll probably be back down in a couple of months," he says finally and pulls his hand away. "See if she can find a job or get interviews or something. I'll probably have to go back to Barstow a couple of times, get the car handled." 

I park the car and he leans forward scraping a fingernail across the dash. "I told her...what you said. That I didn't know how I felt about it." He tilts his head toward me and smiles a little. "You were right. She needed to hear that." 

"I'm a smart guy," I tell him, lay a hand on his neck and rub a little. 

"Yeah. You are." He grins again and opens the door. 

He's just told me nothing and everything all at once. Feels like it because I'm not as tense either. Pam's decision. It always was and given Brian's reaction, I guess she finally figured that out and he's just as happy knowing he's only part of it. 

He's already pulled two beers when I get in the house, kicked his shoes off and left them by the front door. He offers me one and hauls himself up on the kitchen counter to drink his. Feet up, cross-legged and I roll my eyes at his feet on the counter, tickle the bottom of one just to make him laugh and he grabs my wrist, drops his legs over the side. 

I set my beer down and get between his legs. We've got nothing to do really: clothes are washed; we've got enough food that no cooking needs to be done. Even his shoes are polished and ready to go for tomorrow. "You're gonna need to sleep tonight," I remind him. 

"I will." His hands come up on my shoulders rubbing them, massaging the muscle. He's got great hands. "I go to bed now though and I'll be up at like four." 

"We could go to bed and not sleep," I offer, and is it my fault that I get a thrill right down to my dick when he seems to really like that idea? I don't think so. Not like we've been short on the sex, but it's different now. No other motives than want. 

He picks up his beer and almost drinks the whole thing in one long gulp -- he only stops because I go after his Adam's apple with my tongue. It makes him shudder and I almost miss hearing the bottle hit the counter under his very rough "yes." 

He's sliding off the counter _that_ fast, into my arms. We might not make it to the bedroom. Not the first time. 

We do though, stripping off clothes because while undressing each other can be fun, it slows things down and I don't think slow is part of the plan at the moment. 

I'm still pulling my shoes off by the time he's naked and on the bed, coming up behind me, arms around my shoulders. He's using his tongue and teeth on the back of my neck, I can't think and when his hand drifts down to start teasing a nipple, I suddenly can't feel anything beyond my nipple and my dick -- untying shoes is damn near impossible. I really need to learn to love loafers. 

I grab his hand, just to give myself some breathing room. It doesn't help much because I can feel his dick against my back and my own is hard and ready. I haven't even got my pants off yet. He reaches down to unbutton them and it's my turn to grab hands. "Not helping," I warn him and he snickers in my ear. 

I pull my shoe off but I'm still holding his wrist, taking a couple of deep breaths. His bracelet catches my eye. It's different. The jute's not as frayed, the beads are different. He catches me looking and pulls away. 

"I forgot," he says and he's grabbing at his jeans pulling them toward him while I finally manage to get my pants off. He digs into the pocket and pulls out a little paper bag, offers it to me. 

"What's this?" 

"Mom got..." He's flushing, pushes the bag into my hand. "We talked about you, a lot," he says. 

"Yeah?" I ask, feeling a little uncomfortable with that. I sit back down, open the bag. There's another bracelet in there. This one's of black cord, the beads are silvery metal and flat. His old one is in the bag too. 

"You don't have to wear it," he says. "She just..." he shrugs. 

It's not really my style. If I'm going to wear jewelry it tends to be pretty, well, bold. Makes a statement. I lay it across my wrist and it looks -- not bad, just kind of delicate. It's got a clasp instead of tying on. I catch Brian's hand and turn his wrist over. It's tied, the knot tight, the extra twine trimmed back. I lay the bracelet Pamela gave me in his palm and hold my arm out to him. It's almost too tight when he fastens it but the twine will stretch a little. Brian's fingers trace over the vein in my wrist. 

It's a blessing of sorts, I think. I could have done without it, but it's nice to have anyway. It's been pretty clear that Pam would tolerate _us_ if nothing else. Maybe even be glad Brian has someone. This takes it a step further. "Did you pick this out?" 

He shakes his head. "No, she did. To say thanks, I guess." He's not convincing himself much less me. 

"She could have sent a card," I say and feel a little slow, a little tight in the throat. For an opinion I didn't think I cared that much about, this is catching me strangely. "You talked about me." Of all the things they have to talk about, that seems like a waste of time or maybe it was a way to avoid other things. Maybe not. 

He laces his fingers through mine. "She asked. About the scar. I told her." 

"Everything." 

"Pretty much," he says and leans in. "She got these after..." 

"She's okay?" 

"She freaked a little bit, for a while. Mad at me for not calling earlier. She says if anything like that happens again, and _you_ don't call her, she will personally kick your ass." He seems embarrassed by that but I don't think he's making it up or exaggerating. "Same thing in reverse for me...overplaying the Mom hand, I think." 

I look up at him. He's still a little red-faced -- not because of what she said, but maybe why. He's been able to ignore that Pamela actually gives a shit for a lot of years. That's not going to be so easy now. "I'll put her on the speed dial," I promise. 

"I feel like I should apologize. I've been--" 

I shut him up the best and fastest way I know how. I don't want to hear it. If I could make him stop thinking it, I would. I jerk him back, stretch out and I have to give it to him -- when I want to change the subject, he's pretty quick on the uptake. 

I thought it would be fast but I was wrong. Glad to be wrong. The bracelet feels weird when it rubs against his skin, makes me really aware of where my hands are; it looks good against his hair when I'm holding his head and he's kissing his way down my chest. He looks good doing that. 

Not like I need the extra help there, but I'm not turning down his mouth, especially when he's not talking. He drives me a little crazy -- not that it takes much: just his wet mouth, a tongue that has its own agenda and just the barest brush of teeth that makes me want to tense up and scream or ask him for a little more. He pushes my legs apart and crouches there, thumbs rubbing over my hips, eyes flicking up toward me and that smile -- the one that says, "Watch me, Toretto. Cause I've got you and there's not a damn thing you can do about it." 

He's right. Can't do anything, don't want to do anything but touch him where I can and watch my dick fill his mouth. This is so normal it almost surprises me. 

He's got no mercy. None. He's stroking the insides of my thighs now, along the joint in a way that he knows is like punching some kind of button, one that makes me thrust, work for it instead of making him work for me. And he takes it, moving his head with every thrust, taking me deep, deeper than I can take him without choking. Sliding his hands under my ass when I finally come and fill his mouth. He sucks down my come like he's at a water fountain, lapping, swallowing, getting it on his fingers to lick off. Licking at me when I'm so sensitive it's almost painful, except I'm wiped and can't do anything more than curl my fingers in his hair. 

He tugs at me and I just roll – feel him stretch over my back, kissing again, saying things I'm not sure I want to hear except I'm straining for every word. Not apologies. Not this time. By the time he's got lube on his hand and he's opening me, I could be floating in air. Sleepy but not so gone this doesn't all feel real. And now Brian works himself inside me like he's got all the time in the world, like if he goes slow and gentle enough I won't even feel his dick in my ass. Hate to tell him that while I may be bigger, he's not exactly a pencil dick. But he fits really well, firm and tight and full and familiar inside me; just feeling him there gets me worked up again. I can already feel blood rushing south. 

For the longest time he just stays there, snug against my back, one arm under my shoulders so that my cheek rests on his forearm, rubbing his forehead and face on my back and neck, thrusting so slowly -- barely a twitch in his hips, like he's only doing it when he absolutely can't stand it anymore. 

"You waiting for a sign?" I ask him and he licks my shoulder. It's not uncomfortable; I'm so relaxed it's like the bed is made of feathers. 

"No," he says in my ear. "I like this...how it feels." 

I've got some muscle that's willing to work down there and I give him a squeeze. "You like this better," I remind him and he groans. Yeah, yeah; he's not the only one that knows how to work it in his favor. He doesn't pull me up though, just shifts a little so he can find some leverage without digging a knee into my thigh and starts pushing, rocking. Never, ever thought I'd like this, want this. And it's all about how Brian is with me -- he treats fucking like everything else: careful and enjoying it, and wanting it so badly he's almost vibrating -- but he keeps it cool, works it until he gets me just right, gets me going in his direction and worms a hand under me to squeeze my dick. 

I'm not that quick on the recovery but it feels good, makes me give a little back and I know he's close when I feel the sweat break on his skin, making his chest move more easily against my back. "Come on, _novio_ ," I tell him, pushing up, reaching back to rake my fingers on his leg. 

He stops for just a second then moves. "That's it...yeah." Christ, he feels good and I can't help but hump back, push to meet him, like there's some physical limitation we could break if we tried hard enough. There's no part of me that isn't liking this except my brain, which is already way past the finish line. He lets go of my dick when he comes, presses his hand hard against the bed and his head to my back. I can't even see him but I know that every muscle is straining and that if his eyes are open, they're wide and dark. 

I don't stop him when he pulls free but I'd like to keep him there for a while. That's true in a lot of ways and I do my best to tell him that, stretching my legs when he rolls to his back and practically climbing on top of him, nudge his spent dick with my leg. He sucks in a sharp breath and grabs my head. Nothing slow or patient about this kiss. Like he didn't get deep enough inside me with his dick. He's already so far inside me, in every part of me, every thought; I don't know if he could be any more a part of me. 

Finally he just pulls me down, palms the back of my skull and relaxes. I've got fingers wrapped around his ribs, feel his breathing ease, his heart stop pounding -- or maybe I've just caught my breath and calmed down enough to notice. 

"Did you just call me _novio_?" he says after a minute, really quietly. 

"Probably," I say. I'm grinning though. Bet your ass I did, Bri. "I can say it in Italian if you want." 

"Can you say it in English?" I'm not looking at him but the way he squeezes my neck I know he's grinning. 

"I could. What did you tell Pam we were?" 

He takes a deep breath and then heaves himself up and me over, looking down at me. He really is grinning, teeth showing, eyes bright. Happy as shit. I'm not sure my ego can take being the reason for that look. I might bust something. "What do you think? I didn't call you my boyfriend," he says on a laugh. 

"No? So what am I?" 

His mouth's still smiling but his eyes get more serious. "All the family I need," he says. 

I stroke a finger over his cheek. "That seems a little...cold." 

He shakes his head. "It's not. What I need, what I want, and what I have -- not always the same thing." 

I think about that. No, they aren't. Maybe even more so for me than for Brian. He's been off his stride lately, but looks like he's got it back. 

"Doesn't have to be the same for you, Dom--" he starts and I shut him up again. 

Round two takes us a little longer but after that we're both practically asleep before we can do more than the minimal clean up. 

Sometime after midnight I wake up, need to piss. We never even bothered to turn the lights off and Brian's still sleeping curled up where I left him. I take care of business then shut some lights off before heading back to bed. 

The little paper bag is on the floor and I get it, pull his old bracelet out. He cut it to get it off. I'm trying not see anything profound in that but I take it, find my keys and wrap the thing around the chain. Tie it tight. Finger the beads. Finger my own bracelet and then take it off. I'll put it on again next time we see her. It was a sweet thought; she's a nice lady. 

I turn off the lights in the bedroom too and make sure the alarm is set. I don't think Brian really wakes up, just resumes his position, curved up against me, my arm around his waist. He's got his arm on the bed and I reach over to finger his bracelet, slide a finger under it and leave it there, feeling his pulse under my fingertip. 

The scar on his back is invisible in the darkness, but I can feel it under my lips. Just a rough patch; nothing that won't heal and eventually be more of a reminder of damage rather than an actual remnant of it. 

Kind of like that single grave in the Barstow cemetery. 

* * *

  
the end

03/07/2005 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Notes** : In the "Thank you for saving my ass" department: thanks go to both Bone & The Fourth Vine for their incredible assistance, not only in making sure I didn't embarrass myself & every English teacher I ever had, but in helping keep what became a very complex and emotionally wrenching story from getting derailed. They contributed far more than just some polish; they gave this story its heart, & kept Dom's voice far more true to the character than would have otherwise been possible for this middle-aged southern woman. Also, many thanks to Khaleesian, from whom many fine things have been born and shaped. 
> 
> In the "What was she thinking?" department: Originally this was to be _Bella Morte II_ , in keeping with my uninspired title choices, but the further I got into it, the more I realized what I was writing and why. 
> 
> One of the great joys of fanfic for me is figuring out the characters. I'm really not a canon whore. (I also don't think being a canon whore is a bad thing. Those that can should…the rest of us appreciate the hell out of it.) Hence my propensity for writing outside of canon, beyond the end of a movie or series. That way, I get to play with not only how the characters are presented, but how they got that way, using a mix of canon and my own often fabricated background. TFatF presents us with an awesome opportunity to do that by giving us two incredibly complex men, some bare bones personal history and behavior that just begs for an explanation. Any explanation -- I really don't think mine is the end all and be all of supposition, but as always, anyone who wants to use it, build on it, expand on it -- feel free. You don't need my permission, you have it. All I ask for is an acknowledgment if you're gonna do it, because pretty obviously, there's more than one story already in this particular AU. Divergence is totally okay.
> 
> Of all the stories in the UB universe thus far, this one probably depends most heavily on both _Unfinished Business_ and _Bella Morte_. You can read it and have it make sense, but it makes more sense if you've read the other stories first.
> 
> The events in this story are mentioned briefly in my collaboration with Bone on _The Debt You Owe_ and _The Price You Pay_. I actually started this first, but being led astray by Bone is not an opportunity I'd miss for anything. In the universe timeline, this falls after _Bella Morte_.
> 
> This story, probably more than anything else I'll ever say about Brian in the UB universe, tries to pin down the conflicts we see in Brian on screen. The whole situation is pretty much fabricated, even though it draws on some information both from TFatF & 2F2F.
> 
> It also, in regards to family relationships and dynamics, may be uncomfortable for some people. It was for me.
> 
> In the "playing a little fast and loose with some facts and science, don't you think?" department: I actually do a reasonable amount of research. But, I didn't call California (LA or Barstow) to talk to the cops there, and while I have some background in medical procedures, it's been a long time and I was never a medical professional, except as a very brief stint as an orthopedic tech. But I spent a good many years working in hospitals. So, if you think Earl O'Conner dying from a stroke was too fast, too abrupt, too whatever or not enough something, step back a bit. I did do some condensation of events and decline in order to better serve the story.
> 
> The same can be said of how I treat Dom's relationship with the Roman Catholic religion. I make a lot of assumptions here about Dom and the Toretto family and some stuff I just plain made up. My view is that his father was Italian, probably 4th or 5th generation, but that his mother was Cuban, possibly only 1st or 2nd generation.
> 
> My own faith is in the Episcopal tradition, but in the Anglo-Catholic sect of the Anglican Communion. Many of the litanies and traditions are incredibly close, but even in my more conservative upbringing, Anglicans (IMO) tend to bring more intellect to the table, than dogma. As far as Dom is concerned, I think he probably received the "right" upbringing, if both his parents were Catholic, maybe even to attending Catholic school for awhile, but...while he may be a believer and even faithful, he's not quite so devout (in very obvious ways.) 
> 
> That said, I did do some research in some odd areas and the links are below:  
> [On Police procedures for funerals in the case of a death of an officer or former officer.](http://web.archive.org/web/20040823151611/http://www.cpoa.org/Publications/Sample%20Policies/death_of_a_law_enforcement_membe.shtml)  
> [Guidelines for Line-of-Duty-Death](http://www.aphf.org/lodguide.pdf)  
> [Catholic Prayers](http://www.catholic.org/clife/prayers/)  
> [Barstow, California](http://www.barstowca.org/)  
> MdR 12/2004  
> 


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